


Soul Man

by ChloShow



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Christianity, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Religion, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Typical soul mate fic where March and Healy don't exactly believe in fate, but that doesn't change the fact that they've had each other's names inscribed on the soles of their feet since birth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1954

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where the hell this came from or where it will go, but I hope you enjoy it.  
> Also, I'm using the name ineptdetective uses for Holland's wife in the fic Bait and Switch, which is Rose.

Nobody was born with two names.

Yeah, some celebrities tattooed a second name on their foot to get out of divorce settlements, but some courts, like California incidentally, were no longer taking the Secondary Soul Mate or even the Soul Mate Defense in divorce court anymore.

What’s the Defense? Say a guy undergoes drastic cosmetic surgery to change or add a name to the sole of his foot. He claims his new mistress is his actual soul mate, and that way he doesn’t have to pay as big a monetary settlement to his divorcée. At least, that was the game before California set legal precedent in ’75 by rejecting the use of soul mate names in judiciary proceedings as "unscientific." 

Scientists on the pages of TIME or Newsweek espoused that the names meant nothing. They’d added a new question to the census, asking your significant other’s name and the name on the bottom of your foot. There was a significant correlation of .10 between the names, which meant “sole names, colloquially called ‘soul mate names’, explained only a mere 1% of relationships accounted for by the national US census.” Whatever the fuck that actually meant, the names didn’t matter.

But they _did_ matter. They told you your perfect match, and you fantasized about meeting that perfect match until you were 12 and then the whole concept lost its luster. Of course, some religious nuts preached that you shouldn’t have sex with anyone but your match. You could get married to anyone. You just couldn’t have kids with them unless they were The One, which went exactly as well as you can imagine.

So, back to the point, two names just didn’t _happen_.

And that’s why when Holland March’s parents could finally make out the tiny words on the bottom of their year-old son’s right foot, they did what any reasonable parent did once their son was old enough to ask questions. They lied.

* * *

 

“Dad,” he was 6 and just now learning to read, “Who is ‘Rose Jackson?’”

His dad had been dreading this talk for a while.

“Who?” Feigning ignorance worked when he pretended not to know how to use the vacuum cleaner; maybe it would work here.

“Rose. Jackson.” Holland rolled back on the couch and lifted his bare foot in the air, wiggling back and forth impatiently.

“Uh, she’s who you’re going to marry someday,” he searched for the story his wife suggested he use, “And you shouldn’t let anyone know or else you’ll never meet her.”

Nobody could see that their son had two soul mates, let alone a _male_ one. They knew what happened to children with these types of soul mates. Some parents even opted for ‘corrective’ surgery that changed the name’s gender. Others told their children never to mention them.

Little Holland didn’t know any of this. He was much too young and absorbed in this magical new fact to consider the repercussions of his discovery, “How will I find her!”

“She has _your_ name in the same place. Holland isn’t a very common name, so she shouldn’t have too much trouble finding you.”

* * *

 

The first Rose he met was in the 7th grade.

She was no Rose _Jackson_ , but half a name was still something, wasn’t it?

“Hey,” he’d jogged up to her in the hallway after the first day of junior high, walking backwards in order to catch every single expression on her freckled face. “I heard your name is Rose. That’s pretty hip. My name’s Holland. People call me Holl or Dutch or Asshole, but my name’s Holland.” He scrutinized her reaction and stuck out his hand to shake.

She accepted his handshake, a bit overwhelmed by his charm. “Nice to meet you, _Holland_.”

Shit! Did that mean what he thought it meant? He panicked at her emphasis. Suddenly at a loss for words, he waved awkwardly and backed away, “Nice to meet you too, _Rose_ …” Without looking behind him, he failed to notice he was walking straight into an upperclassman’s open locker.

March amused her. He was a funny, lanky boy with a trim quiff and no regard for his physical surroundings. Not quite class clown but not a nerd either. Rose had been getting a lot of attention from the boys at this new school, much cooler boys than Holland. Boys who invited her to secret parties with no parental supervision.

Secret parties that Holland was determined to crash.

**

He’d gotten into the party by the skin of his teeth. Turns out he’d helped the guy’s girlfriend’s little brother pass the 5th grade, and that meant he was owed a favor. Hey, he’d charged the kid a nickel for each of the essays he forged, but his big sister’s boyfriend didn’t need to know that.

Every 7th, 8th, and 9th-grader who mattered was there. Some were necking. Others were holding beers like they’d been drinking their whole lives. And _Rose_ was sitting in a circle of what seemed to be a game of spin-the-bottle.

“What’s this? Can I join?” Holland made room for himself in the circle of about 10 teens. The guys next to Rose weren’t budging, so he wedged himself into a spot between raven-haired twin girls who scootched reluctantly to accommodate him.

One of Rose’s suitors replied with a sneer, “You’ve never heard of spin-the-bottle?”

“I was being rhetorical.”

“Start talking English, square, or we’ll kick you right out.” The kid on Rose’s other side was playing up a tough guy routine to impress her. Fortunately (for Holland), this threat had the opposite effect on Rose.

“Let him play, okay? It’s my turn anyway, so I can decide who stays.” She grabbed and spun the Budweiser bottle in the middle of the circle, ending the debate.

Each rotation turned Holland’s stomach in knots like the Tilt-o-Whirl at the fair until it landed squarely on…

“Yes!” He shouted with admittedly too much excitement after seeing the bottle point straight at him. “Uhhh, I mean—“

“Don’t worry, Dutch.” Rose winked and waggled her finger at him to follow her.

The two kids found themselves in the house’s master bedroom, and Rose set to work untying her shoelaces.

“Uhh, I know that I said I knew how to play this game—“

“You didn’t.”

“’—but what are we supposed to do exactly?”

“Take off your right shoe.” She laughed at his naivety, struggling with her balance and deciding to sit on the strangers’ bed.

His dad’s warning from all those years ago replayed in his head, and before he knew it, he was repeating the memory out loud like some sort of goddamn child, “My dad said if you show your name to anyone, then you won’t ever find your soul mate.”

“That’s just a stupid old wife’s tale. Here.” She removed her sock with great drama, revealing her future husband: Geoffrey.

Great. Not his future wife, but did he really expect to meet _the_ Rose when he was only 12? Frankly, yes. He dared to dream big. Holland squinted at the black lettering on her pink skin, feeling that something was off, “What’s his last name?”

Rose was already putting her sock back on, “People only have one name, duh. That’s what makes it so exciting and romantic. If you knew their first and last name, that would take all the fun out of it,” she finished lacing up her black and white saddle shoes, “Your turn.”

“Uhhh.” Nothing made sense. Was he a freak? He certainly couldn’t show his crush now, “Mine says Rose.”

“Come on. You can’t just say it. _Anyone_ could lie about their soul mate to make them think they’re meant to be.” She reached down to Holland’s red Chuck-Ts when he really started to panic.

“I can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry.” His life was a joke! What kind of kid had two fucking soul mates? And excuse him, but _Jackson_ was definitely not a girl’s name. This was not going the way he’d practiced in his head since Wednesday. Nope.

“It’s just a game. I didn’t realize you were such a punk.” She rolled her eyes, leaving the room and an anxiety-ridden Holland March behind.

To avoid the walk of shame back through the rest of the house out the front door, he wrenched open one of the master bedroom windows, crawled through the bushes, and found his bicycle strewn on the front yard amongst the other party-goers’.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he knew _exactly_ what he was going to do as soon as he biked the 3 miles back home.

**

“Dad!”

His father was seated on the back patio with a glass of scotch in his hand, overlooking their rectangular pool and dehydrated yard.

“What are you doing up so late, Holland? And why are you wearing your school clothes?”

He was completely winded, and it had also slipped his mind that he’d snuck out.

“I’m—I wanted to start getting up early like you, so I decided to go jogging.” Bullshit. Utter bullshit.

“Son, it’s 10:30 at night.” He honestly worried about his kid sometimes but didn’t ask any more questions. He was too drunk for that.

Holland heaved out a huge sigh, trying to catch his breath and cataloguing the fact that flattering his old man could get him out of trouble. “These kids at school—they were talking and—“ He needed to censor the story. Alas, his brain was short on oxygen at the moment, so the only words that came out were wildly inappropriate, “Ah, fuck it. Is mom your soul mate?”

Whether the shock on his father’s face was from the cursing or the question, he didn’t know, but the answer he received was just as jolting.

“No. There’s no such thing as soul mates. Now go to bed.” He finished off his scotch, tossed the ice into the lawn as if to water it, and nearly shut his frayed bathrobe in the door as he slammed it.

The next day, his father left his mother for a gal he’d sold Tupperware to in his route as a traveling salesmen, and love, as far as Holland was concerned, did not exist.


	2. 1962

There were three things Jack Healy knew for certain in this godforsaken world.

 **One.** Baseball was a bullshit sport and not just because the last time he went to a game was also the time his dad told him he’d be going to Germany for a while, which turned out to be 12 fucking years with a few breaks back to the good ol’ U.S. of A. in between. No, baseball sucked. The games were too long. The food was too messy. More than half the players were drama queens. Wrestling and boxing, those were _real_ sports. No frills, no tricks. A pure display of a man’s physical talents.

 **Two.** He’d never be happy. Like his father and his father before him, his life was beset by fighting and separation. Grandpa emigrated from Ireland in the 1910s with his infant son, fought in the Great War, and his son grew up just in time for him to fight in the Second Great War. Jack knew war, just not the formal-type they taught in schools. He’d scrapped his way through his childhood, and “without a proper father-figure,” the judge said, he was doomed to a life of delinquency.

The program for troubled youth in California was supposed to fix that: physical labor and proper education in the Classics. _That_ was the cure for what he had, or so they said. Instead, he was a 30-year-old newly divorced man who worked for unsavory folk as a body for hire. It was almost funny if he thought about it.

 **Three.** Love was a joke. His mom knew it well. She’d married for love, and look where that got her: Raising two kids in the Bronx by herself. Her Ma said maybe she wouldn’t have had so many problems if she’d just waited for Mr. Right. What her parents didn’t know was that she _thought_ she was marrying Mr. Right until the wedding night when her shiny new spouse revealed that the name on his foot was June, not Helen.

No, love wasn’t a joke. Love was the comedian. Jack was the joke. Love belonged on Johnny Carson, telling the nation that Jack’s ex-wife, June, turned out to be exactly the woman his father was looking for. And if that wasn’t funny enough, Love would hit the audience with another zinger about how the name on the bottom of Jack’s foot wasn’t even a name. It was a goddamn country! Who the fuck named their daughter Holland anyway? 

His life was a nothing but one big punch line.


	3. 1978

His Oldsmobile grumbled to a stop in a parking spot of The Burger Hut. Jack looked down at the smudged writing on his hand and found the scrawl just as much a mystery as his client. What was the guy’s name again? Peter? Paul? Mary? Oh well. Didn’t matter as long as he showed up in the next 15 minutes.

March and Holly were expecting him at their little housewarming shindig at 4:30, and seeing as the clock on his dash read 3:59, he was hoping the interview would be quick and painless. He hadn’t even wanted to take the case, but the guy said it was time sensitive. Sometimes clients lied to make you meet at their convenience. Not this guy though. This guy sounded urgent. Wouldn’t reveal the details, but people scared for their lives tended to be a little paranoid.

4:01. He considered breaking out the newspaper for the daily crossword until he heard a small knock on his car window.

“Are you Jackson Healy?”

“Yeah.” The guy was, what, early-20s? Skinny. Wearing a dorky restaurant uniform. The location made sense now; he must be getting off work.

“I’m Patrick. I called earlier about my case.”

 _Patrick_. “Yeah, I figured. Jump in, kid.” He knew a Patrick once. He’d broken his nose behind a doughnut shop. Good guy.

He climbed inside and took a seat. “Mind if I smoke?”

“That’s fine.”

The kid was nervous, jumpy. You could tell he was still a little green from youth. It screamed ‘inexperienced,’ but something in his eyes said that he wasn’t blowing whatever was happening out of proportion. He lit one up before continuing. “I have this friend, see? Had. Had this friend. He’s dead now.”

“Excuse me,” Jack reached over to open the glovebox, retrieving his notepad and pulling a pen out of the center console. He was now poised to document the details, “And what was this friend’s name?”

“John Cooper.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mr. Healy, can I be honest with you?”

“Yes, honesty is key in matters like these, and please, call me Jackson.” He was only a little okay with Holly calling him that, but when other people addressed him so officially, especially a kid this age, it really grated on him. His father had been Mr. Healy, and he certainly wasn’t his father. He hadn’t touched his 50s yet for fuck’s sake. Strangers called him Jackson. Friends called him Jack. His mom used to call him Jackieboy. March called him Healy, probably a habit picked up from his days as a cop.

“I didn’t want to say this over the phone because I don’t know who to trust, and you coulda refused to take my case and all. There’s a client/detective confidentiality-type thing, right?” he flicked his ash in Healy’s ashtray, not that he minded. March used the damn thing so much that any reasonable person could assume he smoked too.

“You could say that.” He thought back to how quickly March gave up his client with no hesitation all those months ago. “Although, Patrick, not to be insensitive, but I sorta have some place to be and playing shy is not getting you on my good side.”

“Sorry,” he let out a shaky breath, “It’s just that John—he was my boyfriend.” He glanced at Healy for a reaction and to his relief, saw nothing that betrayed any disgust or hate. “Not only that. He was my soul mate.”

Fuck, this kid couldn’t be more than 23, and his soul mate was already dead? The more he heard about those things, the more he was convinced they were nothing but trouble. “I’m sorry to hear that. So is this about his death?” He ushered the conversation along and felt like an asshole about it, but this was a job and his job was to gather intel.

“Sorta. He died in a car accident coming back from Utah.”

“And you don’t think it was an accident?”

“No,” Patrick had calmed down considerably, no longer antsy; instead he was serious and candid, “The weeks leading up to it, ya see, he’d been acting real weird. Sneaking around. Hiding papers from me. Lying about where he’d been. I thought he was cheating on me, but who cheats on their soul mate?”

If the tabloid headlines were to be believed, everyone did. He jotted down a couple notes to make the kid feel like he was listening.

“Anyway, the last time I saw him alive was when said he was going on a road trip alone to do some soul searching. I was like ‘You already know you’re gay. What are you soul-searching about,’ but he wouldn’t tell me. Only mentioned he was going to Utah.”

“So, let me get this straight,” he looked at the three words on his notepad: John Cooper, car accident, Utah. “You think he went on this trip to cheat on you, and the person he was seeing killed him. And made it look like an accident.” He had his work cut out for him. “Do you have any physical evidence that I could go off of? Any threatening phone calls. Any enemies.”

“No, just this.” He pulled out a folded up card from his pants’ pocket, opening it up to show Healy the writing inside, “It was the only one of the cards from the funeral I couldn’t identify. Some of my friends thought it may have been from one of the local pastors, doing their last little bit to make sure John didn’t have to spend eternity in the lake of fire or some other bullshit.”

Jackson looked at the message written inside.

_John,_

_I’m saddened to hear that you’ve passed. I wish I could’ve known you longer._

_May God smile upon you and grant you access to His eternal Paradise._

_Forgive me._

The message was short but heartfelt, and the card was expensive. 2 bucks at least. No, an anonymous pastor was probably not behind this.

“I know this is a stupid question, but was there a return address on the envelope?”

Patrick shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I know who did it. I just need you to prove it.”

Now _that_ was not something he was expecting to hear. “What do you mean ‘you know who did it?’ Tell me, man. Make my job easier.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy. My friends did.”

Counting backwards from 10 to 1, he collected himself and his immense frustration at this kid who was apparently a big fan of talking in circles. “I’m a PI. I get bucketloads of crazy. You said this was time-sensitive, so the faster you tell me, the faster I can catch the son-of-a-bitch.”

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

“Fine. I promise not to laugh.” He wasn’t one to laugh at most things, let alone other’s pain. Living above a comedy club suddenly felt very ironic.

“Okay. Do you know that whackjob preacher, Jackson Parrish?”

“The evangelical crackpot who thinks you should hold out for your soul mate? Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” And he had the bad luck of sharing a name with the guy, “His name’s all over the news after—shit, what, didn’t his wife die or something?”

“His _first_ wife died. She supposedly killed herself over the divorce. So. My theory is,” Patrick ground out his cigarette and returned to the conversation with a renewed vigor, “Parrish is gay, and John was having an affair with him. Maybe John threatened to blab, so Parrish had him killed. It all checks out. He lives in Utah, and his first wife’s name was Jordan, which means his sole name _had_ to be Jordan, and you could call me a conspiracy theorist, but Jordan’s a pretty ambiguous name. Could refer to a boy or a girl, is what I mean.”

He was right. He _did_ sound crazy. But sometimes there was truth in the crazy.

“Normally, I would say your theory was a little far-fetched,” he read over the sympathy card again, “But this has really got me thinking. I can keep this right?” He raised the card, and Patrick nodded.

“Go ahead. If it helps, sure. I’m not going to keep it.” Something dawned on the guy, and surprise lit up his face. “Wait, so you’re taking my case?”

“Yeah, I’ll take it.” He was glad he decided to hear the guy’s story, but one thing kept nagging him. “Again, about the time-sensitive thing. Were you just pulling my leg, or being dramatic?”

“Oh, no, yeah, it’s definitely time-sensitive,” he pulled out another piece of paper from his pocket, this one crumpled and covered in exclamation points, “Parrish is coming to LA for a special 4th of July sermon series. The first one started today, and he’s lecturing all week.”

Jackson added the flyer to his collection of evidence, thinking about how displeased Holly would be when she found out he couldn’t take her to the fireworks celebration tomorrow. Maybe she wouldn’t mind tagging along for a spirited lecture about “The Damned Youth of Today.” He guessed Holly would be fine with whatever they did as long as she could be involved, but the problem would be convincing her that they weren't on a case. Ha. He almost laughed thinking about getting anything past that girl.

"Thank you, Jackson. I couldn't go to the police with this, so you're like my only hope."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular Obi Wan Kenobi." He didn't know why he made a reference to that stupid star movie Holly made him watch. He guessed it broke the ice before bringing up the matter of his payment. "Now do you have the cash on you, or do I need to make a stop?"

Just another reminder he wasn't a real hero.


	4. Remembering

The television newscasters had been talking about someone named Holland Parrish when she heard the knock at the door. She gladly welcomed the interruption to her dad’s drinking. He’d been incoherently rambling about how he needed to fix something in the new house, and she’d tuned him out after his third shot. Holly wanted the house to be a return to normality. She desperately wished that once they were settled and no longer drifting between rental homes that the stability would offer some comfort to her dad, but being back in the space where mom had died only seemed to exacerbate the situation.

She dragged her feet across the floor despite her dad’s protestations that that was ‘unbecoming of her’ and opened the front door to find Mr. Healy affixed with a grim smile. “You’re late.” 30 minutes late exactly, and he looked like he knew it, too. She wasn’t angry, just disappointed.

“I’m sorry, Holly. I had to interview a client, and he didn’t have any money on him. So we had to stop by his place in Silver Lake.” He pulled an envelope of money out of his jeans to backup his story. A celebratory holler from March rang through the kitchen.

“Hee-ah-leee.”

The two exchanged a knowing look. “How long has he been like this?”

“He started when the movers left, and it’s just gone downhill from there,” she felt fatigued and was honestly tempted to join her dad’s weird, drunken pity party if she wasn’t so embarrassed of him, “Did you bring the ice cream?” Although she half-hoped he’d simply forgotten the treat in his car, she knew the truth.

Mr. Healy looked at his palm, trying to discern some black ink stains and finally deciding that one of the smudges had previously read ‘ice cream.’ “I can go out and get some. It would only take a minute,” he heard more raucous sounds from the kitchen and watched the young girl wince, “You could come with me if you want.”

“No.” Holly deflated, “I shouldn’t leave him here alone when he’s like this.” This really shouldn't be her responsibility, but without mom there to keep him in line, her dad was an unmanageable ball of impulsivity and hedonism. She’d just learned that word ‘hedonism.’ It was her word for July 3rd on her word-a-day calendar Mr. Healy had bought her for Christmas. Not an overindulgent gift like her dad tended to buy, but a thoughtful one nonetheless.

She backtracked her way to the kitchen to find her dad drumming out a beat on the countertop. They’d used the blueprints from the old house, so everything was laid out exactly like it had been before the fire. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the whole thing was artificial, like the place was a museum exhibit that recreated a scene from history using original artifacts but was ultimately lacking.

The drumming escalated until the two of them walked into view, introducing them like a circus act. “Whoa-ho-ho, look who finally decided to show up.” Her dad reeked, and she saw that reflected in Mr. Healy’s face. “Do you want a drink? We got everything. You name it.”

“I’m good,” he looked at Holly, mulling over whether or not he should say something within her earshot, and went with the former option, “March, we need to talk. It’s about a case.” He pulled out his envelope of money once more and, from what she could make out, a Hallmark card.

At the mention of a case she wasn’t supposed to hear about, Holly’s ears perked up, but her dad had the opposite reaction, “Shhhhhhh, no cases, okay? Not today. You know what today is?” He paused for a response, and Mr. Healy humored him.

“No, what is today?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” He opened the fridge, pulling out one beer, then another, and finally deciding just to take the whole 6 pack, “ _Today_ is a day to pretend that there’s no cases, no weird _shit_ , and have a fun, totally normal…,” he searched for another word, “…normal time. Aren’t we having a fun time, sweetheart?”

Even through his drunken stupor, he could tell that no, she was not having a fun time.

“Fine,” he acted as though everyone had spoiled the high spirits that hadn't been there in the first place, “Let’s talk about a case if no one wants to relinquish their responsibilities for one fucking day. Let’s talk about a case.” He snatched the card out of Mr. Healy’s hand much to his irritation.

“March, we can talk about it later. Just give me that back. It’s evidence.”

“Oh, you don’t want me to have evidence now? I thought we were working. What changed your mind?”

“You're fucking drunk off your ass.” He looked at Holly pointedly.

“So you don’t think I’m fucking responsible enough to handle a case! I see how it is,” he tucked the folded card into his back pants’ pocket with his hands full of beer and turned to leave, “I’ll just figure it out on my own seeing as you ruined the party.”

Her dad’s bedroom door slammed shut, and Mr. Healy let out a long-suffering sigh.

“You should’ve punched him in the face,” she commented, taking a seat at the counter and slumping down to rest her chin on her overlapping arms.

“This is because of your mom, right?” He gestured to the whole situation that had unfolded before them.

Holly nodded, “Yeah,” and a sort of realization struck her, “He hasn’t told you anything about her, has he?” Her dad was a talker but not really about the type of things that mattered.

“Nothing much. Actually,” he looked to one side, scanning his memory for some mention of March's past, "I don’t think I know her name.”

“Her name was Rose, and don’t tell him I told you this, but they were soul mates.” She watched shock and comprehension flash across her friend’s face as well as something else she recognized but hadn’t expected to see: Disappointment.

* * *

 

“Holly, do you want to know a secret?” Her mother was giving her a pedicure when something mischievous lit up in her eyes.

“Yeah! What is it?” Holly was in awe. What was this secret? How many secrets did her mom have? She followed her mom’s line of sight and found herself staring straight at her mother’s soul mate birthmark.

“Do you know what that says, Holl?”

The perfectly legible letters stretched across two inches of skin. Holland.

“That’s daddy’s name!” She declared, wondering if this meant what she thought it did.

“Mm-hm, that’s daddy’s name, sweetheart, and you know what that means.” She watched her daughter’s head nod enthusiastically. Rose March wanted her daughter to believe in love so badly, unlike her husband who’d rejected the idea of ‘soul mates’ long ago. She knew they were meant for each other despite her husband’s fuck-ups, and Holly deserved to know, too. “However, you mustn’t tell daddy you know this, sweet pea.”

“Why not? If you two love each other, then everyone should know, right?”

So young and so well-spoken. “Let’s just say that boys, particularly your daddy, don’t like to talk about love. Some people don’t even believe in it, but trust me, Holl, love is real.” She lifted her daughter’s right foot and placed it on her lap to remind herself of the name she’d read a thousand times over by now, “And whoever this Terry is, they’ll make your life that much more special.”

Holly’s little eyes glittered with fantasy, reflecting the countless wonderful possibilities that waited just beyond her grasp.


	5. Warming

March heard Healy leave about an hour after…well, he wasn’t sure what the fuck happened. He was drunk, yeah, he was _still_ drunk, but not as drunk as he’d made himself out to be. He liked it when people underestimated him or as in this case, thought he was too fucking gone to reason with.

Because he was a worthless sack of shit, he was finishing off a six-pack in bed while his daughter and his partner reflected on how much they hated him somewhere else in the house. Beer trickled off his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. He was the fucking _star_ of ruining parties, wasn’t he? Birthday parties, anniversary parties, fucking Sid Shattuck’s porno party. Anything that could be celebrated, he ruined.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want Healy around. He just didn’t want him around in this particular location, that’s all. He hadn’t known that until about 2 hours ago, but when the clock started counting down the minutes until Healy was supposed to arrive, he panicked.

He couldn’t even—fuck, he couldn’t even call him by his first name, let alone look him in the eyes in the place where his fucking wife burned up.

Rose had been a real-life miracle, proof that someone could love him, and he’d wasted every goddamn second of their marriage afraid that this Jackson guy was gonna come along and ruin everything. She knew he had two soul mates, but she didn’t care. She said they’d work it out if it ever came to that. Bullshit. His parents couldn’t make their marriage work. Hell, more than half the nation couldn’t stop cheating on their spouses for a second to see just how lucky they were to have the person they’d married in the first place.

So he self-sabotaged. So what. Things were gonna fail anyway, and they were probably going to be his fault, too. At least this way he had control over the outcome. More or less.

* * *

 

Was it him, or was it way too hot even for a California summer?

Jack woke up to the crackle of flames and the smell of smoke. He sat up, slipped on his shoes, and let adrenaline take over. The fire escape was located just outside his living room window, and as he lifted the window frame, the door to his apartment collapsed, unleashing a giant fireball that must’ve burned his eyebrows off. But he’d have to check that later because he was already halfway down the steel ladder before he even registered what might be happening.

As he landed in the street, wearing a tank top and the jeans he’d had on for a couple days now (had it been a week yet?), he searched frantically for his keys only to realize they were still on his counter lined up next to his comb and glasses.

Why did he need his keys? Where was he going? Think. Think. Shit.

The new client. He’d just taken a new client. Someone must’ve tailed him yesterday. That means they saw him stop off at March and Holly’s house, which means they could be in danger, too.

He ran up to his car, forcing the door handle in anger, not patient enough to retrieve the spare key hidden behind the license plate. Without thinking, he pulled a pocketknife out of his pants, used the blunt end to shatter his driver’s side window, and unlocked the door from the inside. The broken glass crunched as he leaned down in the seat to hotwire his own car. If he were in his right mind, he’d think about what an idiot he was, but he wasn’t. He was barreling down the street at 90mph with sirens flocking behind him to the place he used to call home, hoping to God his apartment had been the first stop on whoever’s shit list he’d made it onto.

* * *

 

After Mr. Healy had left, she watched some TV, read a book, and allowed herself to cry a little. As a kid, she’d imagined her life so much differently. She’d thought, like an idiot, that everything would work out after a while. Mom and dad would stop fighting. She’d find some friends she actually liked as well as her mysterious soul mate, Terry. She’d grow another couple inches and finally start maturing so that people would take her seriously.

Nope. Instead, her mom had died. Her dad had gone off the deep end. Her friends were still shitty, and none of their parents let them come over to her house anyway. On top of all that, she was still flat as a board, and the only Terry she knew was this girl on the junior high basketball team.

Needless to say, she couldn’t sleep.

But _that_ , of all things, turned out to play in her favor.

12AM, and she was still up, writing in her diary when she heard a _crash_ like someone had broken a window. Well aware that her dad was nowhere near conscious, she took her pink, plastic telephone, dialed 911, and reported the incident.

Besides the broken glass, something else was suspicious: There were no bumps or knocks in the hallway that signaled an intruder. She pressed her ear up against her locked door to listen and recoiled at the heat. A couple wisps of smoke curled up around her toes, and that’s when she knew she had to get the hell away from the door and out of the house.

Lifting up her window and crawling onto the green lawn, she saw more smoke seeping up through the roof. The fire was burning fast. Her dad’s room was on the other side of the house, so she ran around the front as quick as she could, desperate to find out if the flames had originated in her dad’s room.

Thankfully, her dad’s window was still intact, meaning that wasn’t the crash she’d heard earlier, but as much as she pounded against the windowpane to wake him up, he wouldn’t stir.

“Dad!” She shouted at the top of her lungs over and over again, helpless and terrified that she was about to lose yet another parent.


	6. Matching

Just as he thought, the March household had a fire to match his own. Through his broken car door window, he could hear a young girl frantically screaming.

Holly.

He had barely put his car in park when he took off towards the source of the commotion. The fire hadn’t engulfed the entire house, so whoever decided to torch The Comedy Store must’ve made his place first priority. He held off on thanking the big man in the sky just yet as he made it to where Holly was desperately trying to access what Jack could only guess was her father’s room.

“Holly!” He alerted her to his presence.

“Mr. Healy! Dad’s trapped inside! He’s not answering. I think he’s passed out.”

He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and sized up the situation. There wasn’t much time before something collapsed and barred his way in. Or out. “Go stand in the street and wait for the cops. I’ll get your dad out. Now go.”

She was reluctant to leave but understood his concerns. Following his orders, she took a place on the side of the road, watching her friend slam his body into the windowpane and enter the burning house.

The streams of blood running down his back and arms were completely secondary to the sight of March’s bedroom or what he could see of it anyway. Smoke obscured his vision, forcing itself into his lungs, choking him. He stooped low to avoid the worst of the smoke and stumbled across something lying parallel to the bed.

March was face first on the ground, unconscious next to a small trail of flames ending at an upturned beer bottle. Jack didn’t waste his breath to shout his friend’s name. Rather he hauled the man up by the armpits as far as he could lift him and dragged him across the floor to the window. March may not have been as paunchy as Jack was, but the dead weight of his body was a motherfucker to pass over the windowsill.

With one last gargantuan effort, Jack pulled his friend’s body across the lawn and collapsed against the property’s fence, clutching March to his chest. The last thing he remembered processing before he blacked out was Holly's distant voice yelling, “Mr. Healy!” and the nearly imperceptible feeling of March’s shallow breath on his skin.

* * *

 

Something hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

He opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital bed. A couple flashes of memory helped inform him to exactly what the fuck he was doing in a hospital with bandages running down the length of his chest: Drunk sleeping. Waking up. Can’t breathe. Rolling off the bed. Sirens. His daughter’s voice asking if he’s going to be okay.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He was surprised by how dry his throat was and how difficult it was to speak. Sorta like the time he got nicotine poisoning when he was 15 but, ya know, worse. Before he could even ask, Holly was at his side with a glass of water, placing it into his hand and making sure he grasped it. After a couple sips and one long gulp, he handed the empty glass back to Holly. “Thanks.”

A familiar gruff voice decided to fill him in on the bizarre state of things. “There was a fire.”

He was suddenly aware Healy was sitting in a chair to his right, looking like he’d just crawled off a hospital bed himself. Judging by the bandages on his back, he probably had.

“Healy saved you,” Holly added.

His daughter was looking at Healy as if he were worthy of a fucking Purple Heart for saving his sorry ass. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, it’s so, and don’t say anything that’ll make me regret it either.”

Despite the edges of truth to Healy’s joke, March honest-to-god laughed. “So, what actually happened? Did I light a cigarette after spilling a bottle of Jack? Someone get me out of the dark here.”

“There were two fires,” Healy leaned forward, eyes flicking to Holly for a second and returning to March like he wasn’t sure if he should reveal the whole story.

“Holly, would you mind finding out where my clothes are?’ March picked up on Healy’s cue for privacy.

She slid open a metal drawer next to the bed and pulled out his clothes, sealed in a plastic bag, “Sure, they’re right here.”

“No,” he took the bag with an ounce of exasperation tinting his voice, “Go look for my clothes in the gift shop or something.”

Holly took the hint and dragged herself out of the room against her will.

After they were sure Holly was gone and not eavesdropping around the corner, Healy returned to his story. “Someone torched my place. The whole building. Comedy joint and all. I got out, drove to your place figuring that if this was arson, they’d hit you next.”

“Jesus, do we know who did it?”

Healy shook his head. “I gave my statement to the cops, and they’ve started working on it, but there aren’t any definitive leads unless you count the fact that the fires happened not 12 hours after interviewing our new client.” He lowered his voice, “I didn’t tell them that last bit. Got a sort of detective/client confidentiality thing in place for this one.”

March was grateful Holly wasn’t around to hear Healy admit to obstructing justice. Not because that would’ve tainted her view of him or anything. Fuck no. If anything, she’d just think him more heroic for protecting their client. No, he just didn’t want her implicated. “And did this client make enemies with a pyromaniac because this feels a little excessive to me.” He propped himself up and opened his clothes bag, suddenly registering that his wedding band was no longer resting against his neck.

As he pulled out the gold chain and prepared to pull it over his head, Healy grabbed his hand in a gentle warning.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he gestured to March’s chest, “The nurse said you’ve got second degree burns that match up with the shape of that thing. I don’t know how it happened, but the metal must’ve heated up somehow ‘cause you’re wearing a necklace of gauze at the moment.”

“Fuck that,” he popped the chain over his head,” I’ll wear it if I want to—ahhhh, maybe not.” Immediately regretting his decision, he laid his ring back inside the bag and went to work removing the rest of his clothing items, eager to get into something that wasn’t a fucking backless gown.

“What I don’t get is if someone really wanted to kill us, why not just shoot us? It’s a lot less messy than burning down two fucking buildings is all I’m saying,” Healy wiped his palm over his mouth, every sign of exhaustion on his face.

Lifting his arms to the back of his neck, March tried to untie his hospital gown but ended up pulled the sensitive skin under his bandages instead. “Motherfuck. Healy, could you undo this for me?” He leaned forward to indicate the bow at the top of the blue gown. Nice, real nice. He couldn’t even fucking turn his head with this stupid burn. Good thing his peripherals were shit.

A pair of hands hovered above his neck, untying the knot and making sure not to touch any part of March’s skin, burnt or not.

He slipped his arms out of the sleeves, exposing his bare chest, “Thanks, man.” For the first time he could see the full extent of the damage, which wasn’t much, but that didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt. Considering the clothes on his lap, he realized he wasn’t going to be able to dress himself either. “Uhhh, I don’t want this to be weird, but could you—if you aren’t opposed to it, I mean—help me put my shirt on?” He felt his cheeks burning from embarrassment, and he was pretty sure his chest would’ve followed suit had it not already been inflamed. “I just want to get out of here as fast as possible. I hate hospitals.”

Healy averted his gaze. Was it just March, or was his partner’s face more red than normal? Great, he was embarrassing them both. He’d crossed some sort of unspoken social barrier.

“Nevermind,” March waved his hand, “I’ll just get a nurse to do it.” The palpable discomfort between them instantly dissipated, and he went back to rooting through the contents of his plastic bag.

Something clicked, and he stared at his clothes with new eyes: These were the only remaining items he had left to his name besides his Mercedes. Even if he could salvage his shit from the fire, he’d still have to throw most of it away because of the smoke damage. The impact was almost too much. He ran his fingers over his worn cotton shirt with the light yellow flowers on it. Not his favorite shit, but now it was his only shirt. He did the same with the pants, exploring the pockets, hoping he’d left his wallet in them when he discovered a crumpled square of cardstock material.

Recalling the previous day’s events, he unfolded the card slowly, opening it and reading the message inside. His heart rate quickened; the reasoning behind his current pitiful circumstances became clear.

“I know why they did it,” March lifted up the piece of evidence, “ _This._ This is why.” Healy’s eyes widened in response, and March continued, “Think about it. We weren’t the targets. I mean, it’s not a sure thing you’ll escape a house fire alive, but this little piece of paper? No _way_ this is the first thing you grab when you’re running for your fucking life.”

Healy nodded, picking up where March left off, “I only stopped at two places after the interview. Your place and mine. So whoever did this couldn’t take the chance that I’d left the card at your house. Fuck.”

“Who the fuck did you interview yesterday, man?” March couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of mess Healy had gotten them into.


	7. Patching

He wasn’t sure how they ended up alone in his hotel room dressing each other’s wounds. Jack was so sleep deprived he wasn’t sure of much that had happened that day, and it was barely noon.

One thing was for sure. He was more than ready for the Fourth of July, along with this case, to be over.

* * *

 

After wrangling himself into his day-old clothes and giving his statement to the police officers who’d realized he was finally conscious, March, Healy, and Holly made their way from taxi to bank to taxi again when March remembered he couldn’t withdrawal money without a photo ID to what was left of the Comedy Store to taxi and finally to what was left of the brand new wreckage of their home.

Luckily, Healy had some cash in his pockets for a couple cab rides because March’s wallet was long gone, probably melted together into a brick of plastic and leather. The trio wasn’t too talkative as they ran the necessary errands to get their lives back on track. Holly was curled up in her nightclothes, dealing with losing a house and all her possessions for the second time in two years. March wondered vaguely if she’d ever be attached to anything she owned again.

And if it was possible, Healy was more of a mess than he was, looking like he was about to fall asleep on his feet. His normally boyish hairstyle was in a state of disarray, revealing a couple cowlicks, and without a jacket or button-up to cover his black tank, he looked less like a tough guy and more like a worn out softy. He’d never seen Healy like this before, so vulnerable. March guessed he couldn’t wait to button everything back up with a thrift store leisure shirt and a couple hours rest.

They’d stopped by Jackson's place. Holly waited in the cab while he and Healy ducked under the police tape and fished amongst the ashes for something that had already slipped March’s mind. He ached for a cigarette, but he had none left and his lungs had earned a deeply deserved rest from all that smoke he’d inhaled last night. He watched Healy push a couple charred beams of wood over, settle on his knees, and tilt his head to read something better.

March approached. “Did you find it?” Whatever ‘it’ was; he’d forgotten why they were there almost as soon as his friend had told him. He looked closer at the box Healy was fiddling with to realize it was a safe.

The small door squeaked open as Healy managed to twist the right combination into the lock. Inside were the typical items you would’ve expected to find in a safe, i.e. a passport, a gun, money. And then there was one not-so-typical item: A gold wedding band.

“I didn’t peg you as the sentimental type,” March watched Healy tuck the gun, passport, and dollar bills into his jean pockets then fix the ring with a glare, “What, did you figure you’d get hitched again someday? Thought you hated marriage.”

Healy dodged the question, rising and planting the ring in March’s palm, “We can pawn it for some extra cash. That’ll buy us some time before we gotta go through that whole DMV thing to touch your account.”

“Wait, what am I supposed to do with this? Wear it?” March twisted the ring glinting in the sparse sunlight of the overcast day, a joke half-formed in his mind about Healy proposing to him.

“No, dumbass, you’re gonna put it on the chain with _your_ ring so we don’t lose the damn thing.” He sounded like the answer was so obvious. _Obviously_ they were going to chain their wedding rings together for safety. _Obviously._ March rolled his eyes and climbed back into the waiting taxi.

**

Because they were on Healy’s dime, they’d stopped by a thrift shop to pick up some clothes. There wasn’t much in the way of fashion, so March loaded up on grandpa shirts, a few woefully out-of-date ties, and a brown suit that looked like it had seen its fair share of coffee spills. Holly had worse luck, raking over the entire girl’s section only to find an oversized tie-dye dealio that probably smelled like the 60s. The rest of her tops came from the boy’s section. Striped tees and a few button-ups that looked like they were pulled straight from March’s closet back in the day.

And Healy, of course, was in his element, picking out clothes that were honestly less dated than the ones he’d lost in the fire.

Despite their budget, their underwear, Holly stipulated, had to be new, so they’d stopped off at a department store and then a Walgreens for medical supplies on the way to a hotel after realizing Healy had popped some stitches and was bleeding into the upholstery of March’s car.

Although Healy was the only one with his license (apparently he often left his ID in his glove box due to a penchant for forgetting key items upon leaving his apartment), he was also the one with the least sleep between the three of them, so he reclined across the backseat. Holly rested her head on the passenger door of his Mercedes, while March took stock of their situation and what a motley group they must’ve looked like.

He still didn’t know the details of the case, but the first thing he planned to do once he got Holly situated and safe in a hotel room was drop by their client’s place to get the facts straight from the horse’s mouth and maybe have Healy muscle a couple extra hundred bucks out of the guy, too.

Shelling out $40 for two rooms at the Best Western, the trio split up momentarily, Holly and March ducking into their shared room and Healy into his. He was initially going to let Holly use the bathroom first, but according to her, he smelled like “latex gloves and smoke.” So he wound up taking a wholly unsatisfying shower, wetting his legs and hair then using a washcloth to dab around his chest. He was too painfully sober to deal with this shit.

 

* * *

His mind wandered, coming back occasionally to focus on the sharp pain in his shoulders then dispersing. Jack hadn’t let himself unpack the news that March wasn’t his soul mate, but with his inhibitions low and sleep approaching fast, his subconscious tackled the topic against his will.

When he first met Holland all those months ago—the first Holland he’d met in his whole fucking life by the way—he thought, “This is it. I’m saddled with this idiot.” After quickly repressing the fact that his soul mate was a _guy_ , a sort of relief washed over him. He wouldn’t have to worry about marriage or having children; baggage he hadn’t known he was carrying had simply fallen off his shoulders. He felt lighter and grew to find out he really enjoyed March’s company. And over the span of the Misty Mountains case, he’d even developed, dare he say, a parental connection to Holly.

Out of the blue, he’d found himself a part of a dysfunctional family with two fathers and a daughter that had more wits than the two of them combined. It had been one of the biggest, most elaborate jokes life had played on him yet, or so he’d thought until Holly had informed him March already had a soul mate.

With that, the subconscious claim he’d felt to the Marches dissolved, and he was once more a single man floating adrift in the wreckage of his life. In a single sentence, he’d lost a spouse and a daughter. Not a spouse. There was his self-censorship kicking in. Holland was his _partner._ Spouse-ship entailed love, and he supposed he loved March as a friend but—

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, bringing to his awareness that he’d been sleeping fully dressed next to his newly bought suture kit.

“Healy, it’s me. Open up.”

He rubbed his face, picked himself up, and opened the door to see a freshly washed and unshaven March staring back at him.

“Did I wake you up?” March invited himself into the room, plopping onto Jack’s bed and removing his shoes.

The clock read 12:15PM. He’d been out for an hour. “Why are you taking off your shoes?”

“That’s what you do. You take off your shoes inside.”

“Why’d you wear them over here then?”

“What, you expect me to walk down the hall in public without my shoes on?”

It was possible March had some of the weirdest, most specific hang-ups he’d ever encountered. He’d tried tackling them a few times but quickly learned that was a battle he would always lose. “Whatever. Let’s go over the case and work out our next move.”

“About that,” March rose, grabbing Jack’s biceps gently and turning him around, “You look like you’re about to drop dead _and_ you’ve got a blood stain the size of an orange, so, ya know, we probably shouldn’t rush anywhere just yet. Take off your shirt.”

He unbuttoned the red tropical shirt patterned with hibiscus flowers set in overlapping squares. Not exactly his taste, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “What are you gonna do, play doctor? You hate blood. You nearly passed out when Holly skinned her knee trying to skateboard.” He tossed the shirt on the bed and heard March audibly gag.

“No, I’m fine. I can do this.” He closed his eyes, peeling back the medical tape outlining the wound.

There were several cuts across his shoulders but only one particularly nasty gash that had required stitches, thank God. He thought about closing it back up, but between his limited reach and March’s squeamish stomach, they were going to have to bring in a third party to help.

“There’s some Neosporin and fresh pads in the bag over there,” he nodded toward the bed, “Just patch it back up for now. I’ll deal with the stitches later. Must’ve pulled ‘em while moving debris back at my place.” He had to stop calling it his place. It was no one’s place now.

“Almost there—ew, ew, ew, ew.” March held the used pad by his fingers tips and tossed it in the bathroom, “Absolutely disgusting.”

He couldn’t see him, but he could tell March was wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“Shut up, okay. Shut up. I’m pretending this isn’t happening. Eugh.” He squeezed the antiseptic gel out onto Healy’s skin and placed a fresh square of protective cotton over the spot.

“What are you doing? How much Neosporin did you put on there? You’re supposed to spread it around evenly with your finger.”

“The way I’m doing it is _fine_. It’s not like your back’s gonna fall off.”

As infuriating as it was, he loved their back-and-forth. One of his favorite aspects of life with March was how easily words flowed between them. Why was he getting so sappy all of a sudden?

“There,” March patted his good shoulder, “Good as new. Well, good as it’s gonna get for now.” He retrieved Jack’s shirt from the bed and held it out for him to slip his arms through the sleeves. “By the way, I might need help doing mine, too. Not all of them. Just up around my neck where I move a lot, and I may have also gotten them wet when I washed my hair, and I know you’re not supposed to get them wet, so…” He trailed off, and Jack turned around to find March looking equal parts guilty and helpless.

“Let me take a look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me through this. I have the rest of the story planned out, I just have to get it out on paper haha


	8. Breaking

Healy made quick work of his bandages what with the fact that he was probably used to this type of thing and didn’t also have an aversion to blood. March lulled his head forward, letting his chin rest on his chest. His shoulders even managed to relax when he wasn’t tensing in apprehension for the pain of medical tape and cotton pads grating against his delicate skin. Seated on the toilet lid while Healy worked from above, March caught sight of the twisted scar on his left arm and steadied himself against a bout of nausea. Not that he was going to thank Healy for breaking his arm or anything, but having a cast while that particular disgusting injury healed was serendipitous to say the least.

“Okay. I’m no doctor, but I’d say these should scab up in the next couple days. They’ll itch like crazy, but don’t scratch them or it’ll take longer for it to heal.” Healy stepped back to lecture him.

Pffft, like he needed lecturing on injuries. He’d had the chicken pox when he was 6, and he hadn’t itched at all. Not because he had any self-restraint. His mom had taped mittens over his hands and then he cried for like a week straight, but that was beside the point. “I’m a grown-up. I know not to scratch. Jesus.”

“I know you know, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything when it comes to you, does it?”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“I’m just saying you’re not the most in control of your actions.”

“Fuck you. ‘In control,’” March had a feeling they weren’t arguing about injuries. He stood up to get on eye level with Healy. What he wouldn’t give to have even a quarter of an inch on the guy, “Last time I checked, we’re both homeless and running for our lives, so think again before you call the pot black, you fucking _kettle_.” Admittedly, ‘kettle’ wasn’t much of an insult, but he was committed to the analogy.

“This is what I'm talking about,” Healy raised his voice in frustration, “You’re angry about everything all the time.”

“I’m not angry about everything—“

“See! You’re getting angry about being angry!”

Shit, maybe he had a point. He paused, scratching the back of his head and resting his hand on his hip, “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes!”

Before their conversation could find its footing, a fervored knocking alerted them to the door.

“Dad, Healy, let me in! Turn on the TV!”

He answered the door to find his daughter in a striped, hot pink t-shirt that frankly assaulted his eyes. “What is it?”

Holly pushed past him to turn on the television set and flip the channels to the correct news station. She perched at the end of the bed, nervous excitement radiating from her like light from a sunlamp.

“Jackson Parrish continues his controversial sermon series tonight, which has said to be targeted at certain sinful demographics such as the youth of today and homosexuals,” the news anchor announced, “Pastor Parrish has faced much criticism for his radical beliefs as well as his reaction to his recently divorced wife, Jordan Parrish’s, recent suicide.”

A sound bite showed the pastor, a 50-something man with dark brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, leading a press conference. “Jordan could not reconcile that I’ve been blessed by God to have two soul mates, and thus, took her own life.”

“Nobody has two soul mates.” Healy added skeptically.

“You’d be surprised,” he turned to Holly, “This is interesting and all, but what the fuck does this have to do with anything?” He was aware his tone was a little testy, but it had been a very testing day and the topic of soul mates had been known to try his patience.

“It’s about the case,” Healy followed up with a question of his own, “Holly, how did you know we’re investigating Jackson Parrish?”

“More importantly, how did she know and I didn’t?” Jackson fucking Parrish! No wonder they were up shit creek. That guy was a total whacko.

“I was just about to tell you before Holly came in."

“No you weren’t. You were talking about how I’m an angry person.”

“Well, after that then.”

“Stop!” The chaos of them arguing on top of the newscaster’s voice was too much for Holly. “Just…stop.” She turned off the TV set and commanded March and Healy’s attention with her story. “When you came over to our house yesterday, I saw a flyer sticking out of your pants and figured it was for the case you’d just picked up. I pick-pocketed you when we got ice cream. Sorry, Mr. Healy.”

“No problem.” Healy didn’t look upset. He looked impressed, and March was pretty impressed himself for raising such a resourceful kid. She was a pain in the ass sometimes but smart as a tack.

“I didn’t know what the flyer meant, but I remembered you showing dad some sort of card,” she slipped something out of her pocket, revealing the sympathy card for the deceased man named John, “So I went through his things while he was out of the room, and I looked through the newspaper and turned on the news to see if I could catch anything about ‘Jackson Parrish’ or this ‘John’ guy when they started talking about Parrish’s wife.”

He took the card away from Holly, passing it to Healy, “Find a safe place for this, okay?”

“What about his wife? She’s dead. You think he killed her?” Healy walked over to the small wooden nightstand and took out a small black Bible, tucking the card inside its pages for safe-keeping.

“Maybe, but that’s not my point. I’m talking about his _second_ wife, Holland Parrish. I knew I’d heard about her before somewhere. She’s the key to all this!” She nearly burst with enthusiasm, but whether March was too tired or hungover, he was not following anything she was saying. Holly paced across the cheap carpet, letting her ideas fly. “If you think Parrish was involved in this John guy’s death, then you show that card to Holland Parrish and she verifies his handwriting. Maybe she can even get us a writing sample for comparison.”

Healy shook his head, looking doubtful, “Even if we could get to his wife, I don’t think she’d talk to us. She’s probably brainwashed.”

“Yeah, anyone who’s tricked into marrying this guy because they’re supposedly soul mates is not going to be convinced their husband is a murderous lunatic. I mean, it’s like those UFO people who think they’ve been abducted by aliens. Some people just can’t be reasoned with.” He’d believed in soul mates once. True love. Fate. He’d believed in the Tooth Fairy, too, but you know what? He grew the fuck up.

“Don’t say that.”

March turned to his daughter to find her squared up and ready to fight, her face set as if she’d been slapped. 

“Just because someone believes in soul mates doesn’t mean that they’re stupid.” She seethed.

Uh-oh, damage control. “I’m not saying they’re stupid, sweetheart, I’m saying they’re gullible.” His words did nothing to douse the flames growing in Holly’s eyes.

“Tell that to mom.”

Shit, shit, shit. How did Holly find out? To his side, Healy stared at the ground and tried to disappear, fully aware this was not a conversation he should be privy to.

“Your mom didn’t believe in soul mates either.”

“You’re a fucking liar!” Tears started to well up in her eyes. “I _know_ she loved you. She _told_ me you were meant to be together, and you’re just totally shitting on her!”

“I’m not _shitting_ on her,” Rose had thought it was funny their birthmarks matched up, but that was the most March knew about her views on the subject. He combed through his memories and failed to find one piece of evidence that suggested Rose believed in soul mates. “You were probably a kid when she told you, and I don’t know, it’s like saying Santa Claus is real. When you’re a parent, you want your kids to believe in something special, that the world isn’t a total piece of shit. But you know what? It is. Life is shit. Life is unfair. Life hits you in the dick when you’re down, and it doesn’t care.” He rubbed a tear out of the corner of his eye and willed himself not to break down.

“I hate you.” Holly sneered, watched her blow land square in March’s heart, and slammed the door behind her.


	9. Admitting

After Holly’s outburst, March told Jack he’d needed breathing room and drove off to see Patrick in Silver Lake to “figure out what the fuck they were investigating exactly.” He hadn’t volunteered to stay at the hotel and look after Holly so much as March left him no other choice but to do so. They currently were sharing a car, Jack needed the rest, and Holly needed a gentle hand to guide her through whatever funk March had put her in.

He wasn’t a gentle guy, and he had limited experience with parenting, but the situation had left him in charge of Holly’s wellbeing, so what was he gonna do? Leave her to cry herself to sleep while March avoided talking to her? No.

Knocking a couple of times to get her attention, he didn’t have to say anything before Holly had jerked open the door, red-faced and furious.

“What, did you forget your booze this ti—oh, Mr. Healy,” her demeanor softened, and she sniffled a little, “I thought you were my dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Can I come in?” He took her silent head bob as a yes and cautiously entered the room, unsure as to how he was going to help but equally determined to try.

Holly grabbed a bag of potato chips off the TV stand, munching away at what Healy realized must’ve been both her breakfast and lunch, “Are you here to babysit me?”

There wasn’t an easy way to break into a deep, heartfelt conversation he was beginning to find out. “Yes and no. I’m here until your dad gets back, but that’s not the point.” He sat down on what appeared to be March’s bed, unwilling to invade the only private space Holly currently had to herself. “I wanted to see if you needed someone to talk to about—“

“About my dad being an asshole.”

“Sure. If that’s what you want to talk about, we can talk about that.” He was all for discussing March’s penchant for being a putz, especially after that shit he pulled at the house warming party. “Shoot.”

Climbing up onto her own bed and hugging a pillow, Holly took a 30 second pause to gather her thoughts before voicing her mind. “He’s wrong. About mom. She _told_ me, and she wasn’t lying,” she was certain, “She had this look like she was so happy to finally tell someone who’d be happy for her, ya know?” Her eyes misted over at the thought of her mother. Something in her face changed. A tangent had surfaced. The new topic twisted her mouth and creased her eyes; she was as much of an open book as her dad, “Mr. Healy, do _you_ believe in soul mates?”

There was the million-dollar question. Did he lie, or did he break her heart? “I, uh, I—“

“It’s okay if you don’t. I just wanted to know.” She already knew his answer it seemed. It wouldn’t do any good to lie. Maybe she needed someone to break it to her easy. That’s what he’d needed and certainly wasn’t what he’d gotten from his parents.

“No, Holly, I don’t believe in soul mates.” He watched something flicker from her eyes and realized what he’d witnessed was the last shred of hope for her future burning out. He could almost see Holly 10 years from now, following her dad’s self-destructive path with a bottle in her hand and a cigarette in the other. There had to be a way to tell the truth without compounding the damage March had dealt. “Real life, it’s much more complicated than soul mates. Can I tell you a story? A personal story?”

“Yeah, sure.” Her hopelessness turned to prudent curiosity. Jack hadn’t told her much about his life for obvious reasons. He didn’t want her to see him in a bad light despite the fact his entire childhood, teenhood, and adulthood had been bathed in some of the worst light imaginable. With The Nice Guys Detective Agency, he’d turned over a new leaf, and that meant keeping himself accountable to Holly’s judgment.

“I once thought I’d met my soul mate.” He let the statement sink in. His mother was right; history repeated itself when no one headed its warnings, “I was…confused at first. Scared.” He’d barely admitted to himself how he felt about March, but now, saying the words out loud, he barely had the discretion to censor what came out of his mouth. “I let myself develop feelings for this person. But when I found out we weren’t—soul mates, I mean—I felt like such a fool, Holly.” He structured the story as if it had happened many years ago, that he’d recovered from his wounds, but in reality, it had only been a handful of hours since Holly had delivered the news and only about 15 minutes since March had all but confirmed it.

“Did this person love you back?”

He must’ve spaced out. Not lost in thought but lost in the fresh ugly emotions that came with unrequited love. And it _was_ love. Whatever caliber his affections for March had taken, there was no mistaking it for anything other than a form of love. Holly’s question called him back to the moment, and he wasn’t sure how to answer.

“No, I don’t know if he—if this person did.” He knew he’d slipped up. What a rookie mistake. He hoped for the off chance that Holly hadn’t known he’d given up that he was talking about a man, but by the way she tended to absorb every word he said like a goddamn sponge, he wasn’t putting too much stock in that option.

The gears in Holly’s head were turning, and she no longer looked defeated. Instead she bit her lip in contemplation, trying to reconcile what all she’d heard with what she knew. “If you loved each other, then it shouldn’t matter if you’re soul mates or not,” she stated this as if it were her new mantra, “And I know it’s hard to tell sometimes, but believe me, dad loves you, too.”

“I never said—“

“You didn’t have to.” She smirked, “Who else would it be?”

She was too fucking smart for her own good, but she was smiling again so did it really matter that he’d accidentally confessed that he loved March? Yeah, but he’d get over it. “Between you and me, this is top secret, Operation Overlord level shit, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” Holly stuck out her pinky. Jack knew the value kids, especially Holly, kept in pinky promises, so he mirrored her hooked finger with his and shook, binding their agreement for secrecy.

* * *

 

March had a complicated relationship with the concept of soul mates. He’d never admit to believing in them, but he still fostered a small superstition about the small black marks. Like, he wasn’t going to call Rose his soul mate, but he was also sort of relieved she had his name on her foot. It felt like insurance. Through all the cheating and fights, they would stay together because folklore dictated they needed to. So, in a way, maybe Holly was right.

Putting it in so many words felt idiotic, and well, he felt like a total tool, but he had himself convinced that the only reason Rose stayed with him was that they matched. She was out of his league, out of his solar system, and if everyone wasn’t taught from birth to search for their soul mate, she probably wouldn’t have given him a second glance. 

That’s partly why he cheated. The whole self-sabotage schtick. One day she was going to snap out of whatever spell she was under and realize she’d married a fucking toad. But that never happened. She'd loved him and kept loving him ‘til the day she died, and that’s why she was too good for March.

He pulled up to the address Healy had given them for their client, Patrick. The pop and whir of kids setting off fireworks made him jump. Sounded too much like gunfire for his taste.

Dragging himself up the stairs, he found himself on the fourth floor, knocking at the guys' door and wheezing, bending over to rest his hands on his knees like some schmuck. Someone answered.

“Who is it?”

“Holland March. From The Nice Guys. You spoke to my partner yesterday? Jackson Healy. Wanted to drop by myself.” All apartments should have elevators. Why did buildings taller than 2 stories exist without elevators? He raised his hands above his head to expand his chest cavity.

A lock clicked open. No one replied, and he didn’t know how friendly this guy was, so he took that as the signal to make himself at home.

Stepping inside the place, the first thing he saw was a young kid, 20s, tied up to a wooden chair with duct tape over his mouth. Before he even had time to react, a gun handle smashed over his head, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

“Even if soul mates existed, you could never be mine because there’s no way you would treat me like this if you were.” Rose watched Holland’s face fall. Good. She’d finally gotten a reaction other than anger out of him.

She didn’t like to argue out in the open where Holly could see or hear, so they were in their bedroom, door closed, shouting at each other with any of the restraint they could manage for their daughter’s sake. She’d hired a PI earlier in the week to follow her husband on his ‘late nights out’ and found him canoodling with another woman at happy hour. If a PI could tail her husband, the World’s Worst Detective, and get photos of him cheating on her, he _deserved_ to get caught, the bastard. Did he think she was stupid? Or did he just not care?

“So you’re not going to respond to that, hm? Mr. Kilometer-a-Minute has finally run out of gas?” She waited for an answer while Holland squirmed under her gaze. Nothing. “Fine then. I’m going for a drive. Ta.”

“I’m sorry.”

Oh, that was rich. “If you’re sorry, stop acting like a fucking cunt.” This wasn’t the first time she’d known he was cheating, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Why did she stay with him? She loved him, that’s fucking why. Why she loved him, now that was the real mystery. Sometimes she thought she knew the answer, but currently, she had half a mind to take Holly to her parents’ house and leave him on the ash heap.


	10. Surprising

As he resurfaced into consciousness, he recalled details of his dream. He would’ve called it a memory, but something was off. The words weren’t his. The thoughts weren’t his. Had he been Rose for a second? There were better times to consider the implications because he was currently staring down the barrel of an Auto Mag pistol.

“Good. You’re awake.” The voice belonged to a bald James Bond-villain dude complete with a black polyester turtleneck. “You’re going to tell me everything you know, or you know what happens next.” He wiggled the gun threateningly.

March reached to itch his nose only to find his arms and ankles duct taped to a chair. He looked over to the other guy, Patrick, silenced with duct tape and immobilized by cords of rope wrapped around his chest. He could feel the warm drip of blood pour down the side of his face from where his captor’s gun had struck him. By all accounts, the situation looked grim. “Just one question, uh, did you run out of rope, or was duct tape your first option?”

Turtleneck didn’t dignify the question with a verbal response, instead pulling a punch at March’s stomach, which left him coughing. No blood came up though, so that was a good sign. “Sorry, sorry, you’re not a big joker. I get it.”

“Talk.” Turtleneck demanded. The whole situation felt vaguely familiar. Didn’t Healy dance this same routine? Yeah, except he didn’t think Turtleneck here was just busting his balls for the money. Something in those shark eyes told him the guy thoroughly enjoyed bashing faces in.

“Okay, but there’s really nothing to talk _about_. I have no clue what’s going on. All I know is that my partner drove down here to talk to our mutual friend Patrick. My _partner_ knows what this kid told him and what he probably told you before I came waltzing through that door. Isn’t that right, Patrick?"

Patrick nodded vigorously.

“See? I have no fucking idea who you are, who he is, or what you want. I’m an idiot. Just ask my daughter.”

“Good. That’s a relief. Thanks for selling out your partner. What was his name again? Jack Healy?” The man smiled, ripping the tape off Patrick’s mouth in one smooth motion. “The queer didn’t even give me _that_ information. So. When I’m putting my gun in your partner’s mouth, I’ll be sure to mention you’re the one who gave him away.”

The visual of this guy shooting Healy was almost incapacitating. March needed a drink to calm him down. Everything was too fucking real.

“Oh, and your daughter? I’ll save her for last, so she can watch me blow your partner’s brains out.”

At the mention of Holly, March felt his senses narrow to a point, too pissed off to be scared. If it weren’t already so obvious, he would’ve guessed Turtleneck didn’t have kids. You could threaten March’s life all day long, and he’d lie down and take it. He was mostly ambivalent about his own life anyway, but threaten his fucking kid? You cross a line.

Fresh tears poured from Patrick’s eyes as he pleaded with the bald prick. “Please don’t kill me. I don’t know anything about Jordan, and even if I did, I wouldn’t say anything! I promise. Don’t kill me. I’m too young to die! I haven’t even seen The Godfather!”

“He hasn’t even seen The Godfather, man!” March chimed in.

“What godfather?”

“ _The_ Godfather, like, the film. The movie with the gangsters and the fucking cat and, ya know, forget it.”

“I don’t watch movies. All media is drenched in sin.”

If his life weren’t in danger, he’d marvel at the fact that this man, of all people, didn’t go to the movies because he sure did dress like he took fashion tips from super villains. “So you’re saying you’re wearing that fucking turtleneck in the middle of summer not because you’re trying to emulate some Russian spy from a corny ass TV show but because you thought you’d look hip? Okay. Now I know what kind of guy you are.”

“You won't talk so much when you’re burning in Hell.” Turtleneck grabbed a fresh book of matches off the coffee table, struck the phosphorus and lit up the entire row of matchsticks. He took the time to admire the beauty and heat of the flames before tossing the matchbook into Patrick’s bedroom. A _whoosh_ followed by the crackle of fire indicated to March that the guy must’ve doused the room in an accelerant because smoke almost instantly started to pour into the living room. Turtleneck grabbed his pistol and bid them a silent farewell as he exited the apartment.

Patrick sobbed and sobbed, stuck firmly in his chair.

It was an understatement to call it sensory overload. He rocked back and forth to try and free his hands, but Patrick’s wailing was incredibly distracting, “Kid, kid, KID. Stop crying! You’re freaking me out!”

He scanned the room for a sharp object to break through his restraints, but all he could think about was that 1) Turtleneck definitely had been the one to burn down his house, and 2) maybe that had actually been an assassination attempt and the guy was  _really just_ a pyro.

While he was figuring out just how he was going to slip his way out of this one, the door opened and in walked a blonde woman in a conservative skirt suit.

“Are you okay?” She approached him gingerly.

Um.

“I’ll be better once I’m out of here,” was the best comeback he could think of.

“Get me out of here!” Patrick screamed, and the mystery lady gravitated toward untying his restraints.

“Hey, no, hey, lady, come back here. Get some scissors or something, and I’ll help you get him lose.”

“You fucking liar! You just want free first!”

He did want free first, but he also doubted the three of them would survive the next 5 minutes if they let the mystery lady pick at the rope’s knots with her acrylic nails.

“Get some scissors. Cut this fucking duct tape, and I’ll get him out. I promise.”

This seemed to convince her. “Where do you keep the scissors?”

“I don’t live here. Ask him.”

“They’re in the bedroom!”

The trio collectively turned to find flames licking the bedroom doorframe five feet away.

“Get a knife. Just get a knife in the kitchen,” March egged her on, jutting his chin in front of him and willing the goddamn chair to break already, “I don't care if you cut me. Just be snappy.” He very nearly added, “ _It’s better than burning alive_ ,” and thought it better not to jinx himself.

Drawers jangled as she sorted through the utensils, whipping out a steak knife and booking it back across the floorboards to where the two men desperately awaited their rescue. She slipped the blade underneath the tacky glue of the tape and sawed.

“This would be much easier if you sharpened your knives more often.”

“I don’t have a fucking servant!” Patrick was not in the best place emotionally, seeing as all his and John’s possessions were about to go up in smoke. He was also not in the best place physically, being the one stationed closest to the encroaching fire.

“Gimme, gimme the knife.” When March pulled his left hand free from the chair, he swiped at the blade to make quicker work of his restraints, but the woman simply slapped him away.

“You are really not in the position to be so rude,” she remarked, sawing her way steadily through the gummy rubber adhesive wrapped around his brown suit. March didn’t protest. She was probably the more careful one of them, but it didn’t really pay to be careful when a raging fucking inferno was one second away from torching the highly flammable orange vinyl couch next to them.

He stood as she finished the last few layers holding his foot to the chair leg, spying a pair of sunglasses on the coffee table and pocketing them for later. By the time March shook his suit pants entirely free of the tape, the blaze was much too close to begin working on the layers of rope around Patrick. The mystery woman handed him the knife, and he tossed it to the ground like an asshole.

“We have no time! He have to drag him out of here!” March leveraged his hands under the first rung of the chair. The woman promptly left the apartment. “Wait! What the fuck are you doing? Come back!” The click of her clunky heels sounded against the stairwell, and thank fuck the kid was about as heavy as a dry Christmas tree.

The two reached the edge of the first stairwell when March hit a snag in his plan.

“Why did you stop?”

“Uh, I didn’t take the stairs into consideration here.” _Bing!_ A bright idea popped into his head. “I know what we’re gonna do. Just trust me. We’re gonna break the chair. Here we go. One, two, three.” Without another thought, he pushed Patrick down the flight of stairs, and alas, the chair remained intact.

“Ahhhhh, don’t worry. Don’t worry. I have another idea.”

Patrick moaned, and March heavily considered throwing the kid down a second flight of stairs until the mystery woman had returned and was now equipped with a two-inch pocket knife as well as a small clutch bag.

“Where did you go?”

“I had to get this out of my car,” she slipped the edge of the knife under the rope next to the knot holding Patrick in place, fraying the cords and subsequently unraveling the now-lose strands.

Wow, that was not how March would’ve done it at all. He would’ve cut through each and every one of the sections starting at the top, which was clearly the worst way to have approached the situation. For now, he could blame the lapse in judgment on the smoke inhalation because surviving two fires in 24 hours had probably taken a toll on his already iffy health.

March crossed the street with Patrick and the woman, hardly believing what the fuck had just happened. He was still no closer to understanding this case than he was at the start of the day, and now there was _this_ chick? Patrick was the one to ask the obvious.

“Who _are_ you?”

The woman blinked a few times as the possibility dawned on her that they might not recognize her. “Oh, I thought you would’ve known. I’m Holland Parrish.”

“Holland Parrish. _The_ Holland Parrish. Like the Pastor Parrish. That Parrish.” March hated to think this day could get any more fucked up, but by that same token, the day was absolutely guaranteed to get more fucked up.

“Yes. That’s me, and who might you two gentlemen be?”

“I’m Patrick Selznick. Nice to meet you. Thanks for saving my life.” He shook her hand, and her dimples creased like a loving mother at her only son’s graduation.

March was less sensible. “I’m Holland March, and hate to break this up, but my daughter's life is most definitely in danger. So thanks, but I gotta jet.” March nodded and acknowledged the shit timing for a lead to fall into his lap out of thin air. Holland seemed to understand this, pulling out a pen from her clutch and taking his palm in hers.

“I’ll be able to slip away from security detail during the sermon, which gives me about an hour and half before I have to be back for the after party,” Holland jotted down a time and a location on March’s skin: _8PM. Last Stop Diner._ “Now I’ve got to go freshen up. Be safe until then.” She patted March’s hand, squeezed it gently, and clicked down the street in her heels to her opalescent Cadillac Deville.

He pulled his newly acquired Aviator shades out of his front shirt pocket, letting the brown gradient tint subdue the sun’s effect on his still-present hangover.

“Hey, those are mine!” Patrick noticed.

“Not anymore they’re not.”

March mozied back across the street under the heat of the burning building, flicked some ash off the dashboard and pulled away to kick the bastard’s ass who threatened his daughter.

Or, in actuality, to let Healy do most of the ass kicking and hope he could get a couple potshots in when the guy was down. Same difference.


	11. Hiding

The elevator rang its cheery _ding_ and opened its doors to their floor at the Best Western. Jack had bought Holly and himself a much needed IHOP breakfast and stopped off at a doughnut shop to pick March up something more substantive than the tiny bottles of liquor he’d pocketed from the minibar. There was nothing that breakfast couldn’t solve in his opinion. With bellies full of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, they felt much more equipped to face the day, which now included the scene of a frantic March throwing himself at his hotel room door in a futile attempt to gain entrance.

Holly watched March in utter confusion, so Jack had to be the one to break the silence. “Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck are you doing?”

March turned on them with wavering eyes and took a second to register that they were alive. He looked like shit, blood caked across half of his face, and was that smoke he smelled? As if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, March sprinted toward them and scooped Holly up into a hug, squeezing her hard and burying his head in her hair. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” He repeated to himself in relief, setting her down once his strength gave out.

“Dad, what happened?” Holly furrowed her brows, and Jack could tell she was incredibly confused in the mood shift between this March and the March that had stormed out of his hotel room not 2 hours ago, mumbling about the so-called perks of parenthood.

“It doesn’t matter because you’re safe.” His wet blue eyes shone under the incandescent light fixtures lining the hallway.

If March had been attacked at Patrick’s, then no, they were decidedly _un_ safe. “March, really, what the hell is going on. Is Patrick dead? Is there someone following you?”

“Jackson.” He responded with a dreamy sigh before he surged forward, cupping Jack’s stubbly jaw, planting an exuberant kiss on his mouth, and breaking away in the same breath. “Holly, do you have the room key? We need to pack our shit and get out of here. Someone is after us. I’ll explain in the car.”

Jack didn’t exactly hear this as he was recovering from the shock of March’s kiss. Was it a good kiss? Not in the slightest. March smelled like shit, tasted like he hadn’t hydrated for 20 years, and on top of that, his lips were dry. None of this could prevent Jack from feeling his heart jump while reliving the moment in his head, and if he missed whatever March said, the fault was not his own, it was the idiot’s who had kissed him.

A nasally voice cut through his daze, “Healy, chop chop. We gotta go. Get the lead out.”

* * *

 

“And then out of nowhere this woman walks in dressed like she was about to deny my application for a loan and fucking saves our asses. That’s not even the weirdest part either. Guess who she was!”

“Olivia Newton-John.”

“No, it was—who is that? Olivia what now?”

From her vantage point in the backseat, Holly could see Mr. Healy’s ears turn red.

“Olivia Newton-John. She’s a singer.” He explained.

“She’s the girl from that movie _Grease_ you said looked like a load of horseshit.” Holly chipped in. Mr. Healy had taken her to see the movie last month, and that’s when she’d learned her friend had a soft spot for musicals. Despite commenting on how much "the 50s were not like that at all, Holly," she could tell by the way he whistled ‘Greased Lighting’ in the car afterwards that he’d definitely enjoyed the film. Her dad, on the other hand, did not watch movies; he suffered through them for mom’s sake or fell asleep.

“Yeah, no, it was _Holland Parrish_.” He enunciated the words with a flourish of his hand.

That made no sense whatsoever. “What? But you said—“

Her dad talked over her, “I know what I said, and Holly, you can say ‘I told you so’ later, okay? Right now we’re going to drop you off at a friend’s house. Pick a friend, any friend.”

She guessed her dad really didn’t pay much attention to her social life because when did he pay attention to anything other than sleeping, smoking, or drinking? If he _did_ happen to dole out a slice of attention to how her summer days went, he’d realize she was slowly becoming an outcast. “Dad, no one will let me stay with them.”

“Why not? You’re a great kid. I taught you manners.”

 _Mom_ had taught her manners. Dad had taught her which sodas made the best burps. “It’s because anywhere I go, a house gets destroyed.” Jessica had told everyone at school what happened with John Boy because if that girl liked to do anything, she liked to talk. She shouldn’t pin Jessica with all the blame though. The incident had been on the news, so it was only a matter of time before her friends’ parents connected the dots that that was her house riddled with bullet holes.

“Oh yeah, there is sort of a pattern, isn’t there?”

This was her chance to get in on the investigation, to give her dad no other alternative but to let her tag along. “So, I was thinking I could go to the rally, while you two—what are you two doing?” Her dad had most definitely deliberately excluded details from his story. Yes, she knew the investigation would be dangerous, but she felt like twiddling her thumbs at a friend’s house (with no protection, she might add), while her dad and Mr. Healy were risking their lives was a glaring double standard.

“None of your business. And you will _not_ go to that rally. You are staying in someone’s safe house in the boring suburbs whether you like it or not.” He was steadfast, unwavering, and with that sort of restriction, Holly hatched a plan that involved lying straight to her dad’s face.

“Actually, try taking me to Janet’s. Her parents don’t own a TV, so there’s probably a chance they don’t know I’m cursed yet.” Her chest filled with butterflies at the sheer thrill of fabricating a story that would get her close to the action. If her dad paid more attention to her social life, he would’ve known Janet and her parents were attending Jackson Parrish’s sermon series. Holly had told him last week that Janet’s parents had found a pack of cigarettes in her underwear drawer and were determined to do something about it. Specifically, they were taking a family trip on Independence Day to the sermon entitled “The Damned Youth of Today” to set her straight.

Janet’s parents hated her dad. They thought he was exactly what was wrong with men these days, and although they might be right, she wasn’t one to lord it over him like they did. If she played her cards right with a ‘young heathen girl wants to learn about God and escape from her father's rut of sin’ routine, she’d once more have a toe in the door of this investigation.


	12. Waiting

He found himself filling March in on the details of the case in the back of a booth of a bar after dropping off Holly at Janet’s and switching to his Oldsmobile. The clock above the bartender read 3:10PM. That meant they had about 5 hours to kill, and March seemed dead set on drowning himself in booze before their interview with Holland Parrish ever came to pass.

“You might want to slow down there,” Jack slid March’s newest beer away from his grasp, “I need you on your feet in case there’s trouble.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” he scanned the table and drained the dregs from the bottles Healy wasn’t holding captive, “Plus, we’re not gonna solve this case. Best we can do is get Mrs. Parrish to write us a neat check for our trouble and skip town. I’ve always thought of moving to Colorado. I’m tired of this heat. Fuck that, I’m just tired.”

He wasn’t going to let March’s mood get to him. One of them had to soldier on through this slump. “I can’t help but feel like we’re missing something. We’ve got a dead gay guy, a pyromaniac, a lunatic pastor, and his two wives.”

“Sounds like one hell of a set-up for a joke. The punchline is we’re dead.” March spread his arm across the back of the booth, eyeing their waitress and tearing a napkin into pieces to busy his hands in lieu of lighting up.

“Is everything out of your mouth going to be this defeatist? Because I’m trying to talk about the case, and you’re talking about moving to Colorado. What would Holly say if she saw you like this? What would Rose say?” He knew it was fucked up to drag Rose into this, but March was spiraling and Jack needed to snap him out of it.

March didn’t respond. Did Jack really expect him to respond after bringing up his dead wife?

“I’m sorry, man. That was low.” He nearly raised March’s beer to his lips out of habit but stopped himself because ‘two drunk PIs’ was the start of a disastrous newspaper headline. “But we need to talk about the case.”

“We’ve talked it in circles. Up and down, left and right. There’s nothing else to talk about, and dwelling on it is freaking me the fuck out.” March reached for his beer, and Jack gave it up, trading it as some sort of apology.

“What do you want to talk about then, hm?” Maybe March had a point. They had their noses too close to the fine print and had to step back for a while.

March stared at a spot somewhere beyond Jack’s shoulder, either deep in thought or doing his best to empty his head and fill it with beer. “Let’s talk about…the birds.”

“The birds? We can talk about the birds.” His anger was flaring up, and it didn’t help that bars were one of his relapse triggers. If he closed his eyes, he was 18 again with who knows how many drinks under his belt. A guy had called him a fag, and under normal circumstances, those words were incendiary, but with the level of repression Jack was dealing with, those words meant sending the guy to the hospital with 4 broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a gash on his face that had required 15 stitches to mend. He lowered his voice although the nearest patron was sitting 10ft away from them at the bar. “Or we can talk about why the fuck you kissed me.”

“Hm?” March tapped his chin, wiped his mustache, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what—“

“At the hotel. When you fucking ran up and kissed me. _That_ kiss in case you've forgotten.”

“Oh, _that_ kiss.” March answered with mock realization. “It was just a spur of the moment type thing.” He waved his hand as if that explained the whole situation.

“No, a spur of the moment type thing is when you buy a shirt you don’t need or when a salesman talks you into buying two pairs of shoes because you’ll get the third pair free. Don’t make me ask again.” From March’s deer in the headlights look, he thought his partner was going to admit his undying fucking love for him, which would’ve been highly preferable to the words that _did_ find their way out of March’s mouth.

“Alright,” he set his beer down but kept his hand on the top, tipping the bottle from side to side, “You wanna know why I kissed you? How about I say, ‘I don’t know.’ Would that satisfy you? You think there’s a reason for everything, but sometimes shit just happens. You said it yourself back at the hotel. I’m not that in control of myself. Don’t question it.”

If March weren’t filled to the brim with moral fiber and ambition, Jack would’ve recommended he run for political office. Not only could he spew some incredible shit when evading questions, he also seemed to genuinely believe the blatant lies he provided.

“I think I have the right to question any guy who kisses me with no fucking warning.” He knew the issue was moot, but when had that ever stopped him? “I don’t know what goes on in your head, or how you see the world, but here’s a little tip. Actions have consequences.”

“What, ya get that from a seminar?” March reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses, “It sounds very butch. Like you’re gonna show me who’s boss. Now excuse me. I'm going to take a nap in the car." He slid himself out of the red vinyl booth and left Jack to pick up the tab.

He'd pushed March too far and for what? Clarity? There wasn't anything Jack hated more than beating around the bush except maybe one thing: People playing games with his fucking heart. And if it was a game March wanted, it was a game we would get.


	13. Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little heavy on internalized homophobia/biphobia!

March reclined in the back of Healy’s car, moving every so often so that his skin didn’t get permanently stuck to the leather. He dozed off fitfully, waiting for his partner or death to arrive first. He preferred the death option; that way his seemingly endless suffering wouldn’t have to continue with whatever shit Healy, or Holly for that matter, decided to throw at him next.

The (two whole) people he thought would fight in his corner currently hated him. His daughter had flat out said it, and Healy didn’t say it so much as it was written in his eyes. ‘ _This queer kissed me, and I can’t kill him but I sure as hell can cut all ties once this case is over.’_ His reaction had been March’s worst nightmare. Aggression. Rage.

Hatred.

He could be over-exaggerating, but he was mostly sure his best friend, macho tough-guy brass knuckles-toting Jackson Healy, was completely disgusted by his very existence. March wasn’t the manliest, and sure, one of the top three words people used to describe him was ‘flamboyant,’ so there was an unspoken assumption among many people he met that he was a switch hitter. That’s why he only sought the company of women. To avoid confirming everyone’s suspicions. Not that their suspicions weren’t 100% correct—just—he wanted to blend in, lay low, be _normal._

None of these thoughts formed into words per se. They manifested in a conglomeration of negative energies jammed up under his sternum and dancing around in his head like a cowboy jerking his feet away to avoid enemy gunfire. The booze slowed the mind fuzz down, made the static more garbled so that articulating these feelings was nearly impossible. His mom said he thought too much, that he was too smart for his own good. He could only hope (in vain) that he hadn’t passed that particular _gift_ onto Holly.

Heavy footfalls against the concrete outside alerted him to Healy’s presence. The driver’s side door squeaked open. March kept his eyes closed, but he could tell by the sound the leather made that Healy was watching him.

“Couldn’t let you bake out here too long and get heat stroke,” Healy turned the keys in the ignition, letting the car idle, “Where to next?”

March made no indication that he was riding shotgun. “How ‘bout some place with AC.”

“We can do that,” Healy sounded like he was walking on eggshells, overly positive, “I’ll stop at a drive-thru, get us some burgers. How does that sound?”

“Fuckin’ ace.” He was grateful Healy didn’t mention the meal was to sober him up. There was no need to tell March how intoxicated he was and how useless he’d be later if he didn’t take care of himself.

A room and some fast food weren’t going to buy his trust back, but he could definitely get used to this guilty ass-kissing routine.

* * *

 

The pawnshop’s lights hummed under the early evening sky. Jack rubbed the gold wedding ring under his thumb and silently celebrated the fact that March was conked out in their motel room for the next couple hours.

They were running too low on cash for his taste, so he decided to pawn his ring to delay depleting his bank account. Funny thing about that was he hadn’t sold the damn thing when June drained his funds and left him all those years ago. You’d think he wouldn’t have any attachment to her after what she did, and you’d be right. It wasn’t about June. He couldn’t care less how miserable she and Francis Healy were making each other.

Jack was gay. He’d always held out hope that he was wrong, that if he just met the right woman, the right _Holland_ , he’d find that he could love her the way she deserved. The ring sat in his safe on the off chance he found that woman. No, he wasn’t going to marry her, but wearing the ring was a nice gesture to symbolize his commitment.

Or at least that’s how he rationalized keeping this token from his past.

People were mostly irrational, and Jack liked to think he was the exception. But once he hocked that gold band for $20, he consciously admitted fighting a 15-year-long battle to keep alive whatever shred of hope he had left that he was straight. Selling that ring meant accepting defeat.

* * *

 

The rally was a lot like the fair except there wasn’t—scratch that, it was exactly like the fair, Holly thought as she passed through a crowd, spotting a man holding a tepid plastic cup of beer in one hand and a soft pretzel in the other. This place attracted all kinds, not just Janet Perkins’ parents.

Escaping from Mrs. and Mr. Perkins turned out to be much easier than she thought. Mrs. Perkins bounced her one-year-old son on her hip. Mr. Perkins ranted about Jimmy Carter. She mentioned offhand that she was going to the restroom and then meeting up with her dad after the rally, so not coming back wouldn’t necessarily drive Mrs. Perkins up the wall in a panic. They’d compare her to her dad, call her a liar, a bad influence. They’d probably blame Holly for the cigarettes in Janet’s drawer and refuse to let their daughter hang out with ‘that March girl.’ But severing her connection to the Perkins family was the least of her problems at the moment.

She ducked under elbows and narrowly dodged currents of spilled beer as she navigated the crowd back toward the parking lot. From what she gathered, her dad said Mrs. Parrish drove an ugly pink Cadillac, and if she got lucky, she’d be able to convince the woman to give her a role in the investigation. Holly had kept the godawful hot pink shirt and starchy jeans on not because she really, really enjoyed looking like a pre-pubescent boy. The innocence conveyed by the outfit made her appear harmless. She’d learned the trick from her dad. Well, a version of the trick anyway. His was the ‘overly drunk incompetent fool’ act. That was usually reserved for pickpocketing people for leads, but on the rooftop of the LA Auto Show, his performance had saved her life.

The parking lot was vast. She worked row by row, moving toward the spots nearest the stage when she caught sight of a woman in a calf-length blue dress jogging and looking over her shoulder before reaching her car. A pink Cadillac.

Holly picked up her pace when she felt a gloved hand close around her mouth and then an arm hook under her chin. She tossed her elbows, swinging them wildly and feeling them jab into a solid stomach, but the person’s grip wasn't weakening. The last fading image she saw as she struggled to remain conscious was Mrs. Parrish’s red brake lights blinking at her like tame fireworks, or more aptly, a warning that she was in deep shit.


	14. Believing

After a few measly hours of rest on a stiff motel bed, March scarfed down his burger on their way to the Last Stop Diner. They arrived 10 minutes early to scope out the place. There wasn’t anything suspicious from what they could see, but the name of the place still gave him the creeps. Yeah, it was a diner right before a highway exit, so kudos to the clever marketing. Still it felt like he was marching up to the executioner’s scaffold as he watched the animated neon octagon blink around the word STOP, and the almost desolate parking lot didn’t help either.

Seriously, there were two cars, including Healy’s, parked in front of the diner.

“It’s just the holidays, March. Everyone’s out celebrating the 4th with their families.” Healy popped a couple Extra Strength Tylenol and handed the bottle to March.

He dumped two white pills into his hand, screwed the cap back on, and tipped the pills into his mouth with a swig of Budweiser to wash it down.

Healy took the pill bottle back with a sigh. “Really, man, I know I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, but…be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stuck his arm out the window, grabbing onto the roof of the car and propping his heels on the dash, “Last time I checked, I’m invincible.”

“You know who else thought he was invincible? Elvis. And look where that got him. Dead on the toilet with his pants around his ankles.”

“Fuck Elvis, man.” March tapped the pearl inlay of the Bauer Automatic he was borrowing from Healy. He hadn’t had a cigarette all day and was jittery as all get out. “People call him the King of Rock ‘n Roll. You know what he was really the King of?” He paused for dramatic effect.

His partner hazarded a guess. “The King of Bullshit?”

March shot Healy a quick finger gun snap-and-point in response, “Bingo. He was the King of Posers. The King of Fakes. He was all glitz and pelvic thrusts with no substance.”

“Sure, but that’s every musician these days. Any guy with a guitar can make it big. I don’t see what’s so special about Elvis in particular that makes you hate him so much.” Healy scanned the road adjacent to their location for incoming headlights. No dice.

“It’s not him. It’s the hype surrounding him. People act like he’s the greatest thing since box wine,” March readjusted himself in his seat, preparing for a rant, “It’s like people have no standards anymore. They’ll believe anything! Take the moon landing for example.”

“What’s this about the moon landing?”

“Don’t get me started on the moon landing, man. If there’s no air in space, why was the American flag flapping?” Jeez, the collective IQ of the American public was dropping with each decade. He avoided the topic of presidential elections like the plague because as soon as you thought, “This can’t possibly get any worse,” guess what…

This glimpse into March’s worldview gave Healy pause. “You don’t believe we landed on the moon?”

Before March could respond to Healy’s disbelief, a familiar Cadillac pulled into a spot three spaces over from Healy’s Oldsmobile.

**

A tiny bell above the diner’s door rang as Healy, March, and Holland Parrish entered the establishment. An employee clinked dishware in the back in time to the radio, in no hurry to take their orders. Holland set her clutch on the table of a nearby booth and took a seat on the accompanying teal vinyl bench. March waited for his partner to take the inside seat, but Healy gestured for him to go ahead.

“Age before beauty,” March stalled.

Healy smirked. “Oh, I insist.”

“I’m being polite.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” Healy uncovered March’s lie, “If you were being polite, you’d let me have the outside seat. Everyone knows the outside seat’s better. Plus, I take up more space than you do.”

March glanced at Mrs. Parrish and scratched his nose with his middle finger in Healy’s direction. “Fine, I’ll take the inside seat, but only because I’m the better person. And not as fat.”

The two situated themselves on the sticky vinyl, March’s elbows crammed between the wall and Healy, who may as well have been another wall. He chanced a glance out the window to his left to scan the parking lot. Nothing. He coulda _sworn_ he saw headlights…

“So how do we do this? I’ve never been a part of a secret investigation before,” Holland rubbed the tops of her shiny acrylic nails. March stepped back from the situation to realize Mrs. Parrish was as lost as they were if not more so. Thankfully, Healy put that fact together much faster than March had.

“We’re just doing an interview, Mrs. Parrish.”

“Please, call me Holland.”

“Holland.” Healy smiled to set her at ease and broke into his routine. “We’re just going to ask you some questions, and with that information, we’ll gather more leads and evidence until we have the whole picture…or enough of the picture anyway.”

“Right. So, can we start right away, or are we waiting for a third party?”

Had her tone not been so earnest, March would’ve taken offense to the question. “No we’re ready.” He shot a look at Healy, prompting him to start the line of inquiry, but neither could find the words. March didn’t know what to ask, didn’t even know what he didn’t know, so he gave Holland control of the conversation. “Perhaps you could fill us in on what you know, and we’ll ask you anything that comes to mind.”

“Okay,” she gathered herself, flattening her blue dress neatly over her thighs, “I think my husband might be trying to kill me.”

March nearly choked, not from laughter but from the sight of their approaching server’s mouth dropping open in shock. “Um, I’d like a coffee. Black.”

“I’ll have the same.” Healy grinned politely.

Holland turned in her seat to face the server, “Oh, I’d love a slice of your apple pie if I’m correct in assuming you haven’t run out.” Her quick switch in tone from confessing a dangerous secret to candidly ordering dessert threw the server for a loop, and instead of responding verbally, he nodded and turned his heel back toward the kitchen to complete the order.

“Could you explain why you think he’s trying to kill you?” Healy fished a pen out of his jeans, flipping to the back cover of the hotel Bible they lifted from the Best Western and finding a fresh page to take notes on.

March silently celebrated that Holland’s mind was currently too preoccupied to notice his partner’s foray into blasphemy. “Start from the beginning. As far back as you need to.”

“Well, it started with the divorce,” she rewound her memories 6 months to February, “The press accused both sides of terrible things. They said Jordan had disgraced the faith. They said _I_ was a gold digger. _Me_ of all people! I was attracted to Jackson’s dedication to the faith, not his money.”

Her hands trembled. She looked like she needed validation, so March chimed in with an encouraging word, “It’s okay I believe you.”

A deep breath escaped her chest in an attempt to collapse her rigid defenses, “Thank you. It’s not everyday you find someone who believes you. When I heard the horrible news about Jordan, that she’d taken her own life…” Tears welled up in her eyes. March quickly reached for the napkin dispenser, extricated a few and offered them. Holland gladly accepted the napkins, dabbing at the corners of her eyes to avoid smudging her light makeup.

“I wanted to attend the funeral to offer our condolences, but Jackson insisted, _insisted_ that Jordan had committed the ultimate sin and there wasn’t anything left to do for her. So I lied. I told him I was going on a shopping trip to get ready for this lecture series, but instead I went to Jordan’s funeral and at first, no one let me in the chapel. Jordan’s sister told me I should be ashamed to take advantage of her sister’s funeral for a photo op. I don’t know what changed her mind—maybe she realized my intent was genuine—but she invited me to the wake.” Her fingers twiddled with the napkins, and March spotted the yellow stains her acrylic nails were meant to cover up.

“Sorry for interrupting the story, but would you like a cigarette?”

A fierce blush colored Holland’s cheeks. “What—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know a smoker when I see one,” he tapped Healy’s arm to let him out of the booth, “What’s your brand?”

“Super light KOOLs if they have them. Any lights if they don’t.” She gave him an embarrassed but thankful smile.

As he walked to the cigarette vending machine in the corner near the jukebox, March heard Healy pursue a new, unexpected line of conversation with their client.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure. Anything.” She retrieved a cheap, gas station lighter from her clutch in preparation for her first cigarette in 2 weeks.

“How did you know your Jackson was the _right_ Jackson. For example, say I matched with a Holland, and you matched with a Jackson. How do you know we’re not soul mates and that you married the wrong man?”

March froze, nausea settling in his stomach. The last time he felt like this was when the coroner told him Rose hadn’t…that his wife had died. Healy couldn’t even wait until after the fucking investigation to chat up this chick. Worse, maybe he’d even found his match, and March didn’t actually belong in his life after all.

Holland chuckled lightly. “That _is_ quite a personal question. Well, in our faith, we believe the people who are naturally supposed to find each other tend to walk similar paths. For example, I know you aren’t my soul mate because our life paths have intersected and will soon diverge. If we truly matched, we’d keep running into each other.”

“Not to be blunt, but do you think Jackson Parrish is really your match?”

His ears rang. The quarters in his palm pressed hard into his skin from clenching his hands so tightly. Why they were there in the first place had slipped his mind. All he currently knew was that he needed Healy to pay. He found himself back at their booth and slammed the two quarters onto the table.

“March, are you okay?”

“They didn’t have her brand.” Was that really all he could manage? Yeah. His eyes started to wobble. God, he hated that. Of all the stupid tells to tip people off that he was upset…

“That’s fine. You don’t have to get all bent out of shape about it,” Healy rose to let him back into the booth, but March wouldn’t budge.

“Bathroom. Now.” He forced the words through gritted teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive...I just started a new job so I haven't had the energy to update. But I will finish! Mark my words!


	15. Revealing

With March bombarding him in the single-stall bathroom of the Last Stop Diner, Jack barely had any room to breathe let alone compose a coherent argument, but he’d made this bed and, damn the consequences, he’d lie in it.

For once, March couldn’t speak, so Jack made the first move.

“Why are we in here, man? We’re in the middle of an investigation.”

March's lip curled.

“That’s right! We’re in the middle of an investigation, so what the fuck are you doing flirting with the client?” He sneered, “Or maybe it’s some time honored detective ploy."

This stopped him dead in his tracks. Of all the hypocritical blows March could’ve pulled…“ _You’re_ accusing me of flirting on the job.”

“Yes.”

“Let me think. Does the name Tally ring a bell to you?”

He crossed his arms, tilted his head back for a moment, and delivered one of the weakest excuses in the book. “This is different.”

“This is different. Okay, tell me why.” Jack had expected him to take note of his conversation with Holland Parrish. That was the goal. But he really should’ve anticipated March would make a mountain out of a pile of fucking cigarette ashes.

Silently scrambling for an acceptable story, March bluffed, “It’s different. I’m different. You can’t go drudging up the past and shoving my face in it.”

“You can’t tell me if Tally were here right now that you’d be 100% cool and professional.” Jack affixed him with a no-bullshit stare.

“Absolutely.”

“Sure. Sure, you can blow smoke out your ass all night, but I know you, March,” Jack rounded on him, “You’re hiding something, and you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But don’t fucking lie about it.”

Something under March’s poker face cracked.

“Fine.” He threw his hands up in surrender, bracing himself against the wall and getting a handle on his boot.

“Uh, Cinderella, what are you doing?” What it _looked_ like he was doing was too much for Jack to handle. People shared stories on the news about how they matched with their soul mate, and none of them had prepared him for this train wreck.

March wriggled his boot free and let the shoe drop to the tile floor, revealing his bare foot. “Cinderella _tried on_ shoes. A glass slipper, to be exact. Nothing about what I’m doing could be construed as a Disney reference, so if you’re going to insult me, at least make it factually correct.”

“Maybe you should sit down. You’re not the most coordinated.”

“Sit down on the men’s room floor? You’re hilarious.” March jibed, balancing on foot with a hand steadying his body against the sink. “I’m about to show you something that will never leave this room. Got it?”

Jack nodded. No more jokes.

With a great effort, March maintained his balance enough to hold up his right foot and the two names outlined on the sole: Rose. Jackson.

He knew March wanted some sort of positive response to the revelation, but Jack truly had no precedent for how to react in a situation such as this. Did he kick off his own worn out tennis shoes and make it official?

Not one for waiting, March sealed himself back off, barricading the moment solidly into the past with a defensive remark. “So that’s it then. No ‘a-ha’ moment. No ‘Thank you, Holland, for sharing something very deeply personal that I can tell you’re really insecure about.’ Just—nothing.”

When jokes hit Jack Healy’s funny bone, they never struck at the right time. A laugh started deep in his gut and spread to his lips.

“What?” March asked on instinct.

Jack drew a hand across his mouth to disguise his smile, “So you’re jealous?”

* * *

 

Holland had waited about 30 minutes longer than she should have for her apple pie, so she figured it was acceptable to ask the server what was taking so long. The boys wouldn’t miss her. No, they seemed quite distracted at the moment.

The pale purple door squeaked inwards to an empty kitchen.

“Hello?” She inched forward, “I don’t want to be rude, but we’re still waiting on our coffee and pie so if you could…” Something about the static-y radio by the large industrial sink filled with soap bubbles sent shivers up her spine. Turning the corner to peek around the counter, she saw a pair of motionless feet. Attached to those feet was a pair of motionless legs, followed by a motionless torso and a large pool of blood running from the server’s head.

Before she could turn around to retrieve Mr. March and Mr. Jackson Healy, an arm found itself around her neck, and a low voice imparted her with a warning.

“If you scream, you’ll be dead before they can help you.”

* * *

 

“I’m not jealous!” March insisted. He was. Jealous, that is. Incredibly jealous. Outrageously jealous. But Healy was laughing, and of course they didn’t match because why would they. Nothing ever went his way.

“You seem pretty jealous to me.”

“I’m just fed up with all this Zodiac shit. You keep feeding into it, and it’s driving me crazy.” There. Why couldn’t he have come up with that lie 5 minutes ago. It was perfect.

Healy’s laughing stopped, and March had to remind himself he hadn’t physically slapped him because that’s honestly what he looked like.

A loud booming noise sounded from the door.

“Jesus!” March screeched.

“Looks like our little pow-wow is over.” Healy unlocked the bathroom door, and March found himself staring down the barrel of the pistol of who else other than Turtleneck.


	16. Saving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my little tribute to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

Turtleneck waved them out of the restroom with a couple motions from his gun, and for the second time that day (was it still the same day?) he was at the mercy of this goddamn lunatic.

“Can I at least put my shoe back on?” March kept his hands raised with one hand carrying his boot. Holland sat in a booth in front of them, her wrists cuffed and avoiding any eye contact.

“No.”

“Please, I’m not wearing socks.” March hopped on his left foot down the diner’s checkerboard floor with a gun to his back.

“You should’ve thought about that before you left the house.” Turtleneck shoved him forward with the barrel of the pistol. “And drop the shoe.”

He let the boot slip from his grasp and clatter to the floor; Healy chuckled. “Look who’s Cinderella now.”

“I would’ve put on socks if I had a goddamn house to wake up in, thank you very much!” No, he didn’t actually wear socks regularly, but just this once he had an excuse to pretend he engaged in socially acceptable albeit redundant dressing routines.

“Be quiet!” Turtleneck commanded, but March had not finished complaining yet.

“If I’m being taken hostage, I should at least be afforded the comforts of putting on my shoe, for fuck’s sake.”

Before he could blink, Healy had grabbed Turtleneck’s pistol, and a gunshot cracked way too close to March’s head. His left ear rang and rang, and no matter how much he popped his jaw, the sound remained. He watched in a daze as Healy smashed his elbow into their assailant’s face and turned the gun on Turtleneck, forcing him to kneel on the floor in front of them.

“I was worried you weren’t gonna pick up on my cue. Thanks for distracting him, March.”

What cue? “Uh, no problem.” If he went with it, Healy wouldn’t find out he had no idea what he was talking about. That’s how he faked his way through driver’s ed.

“You didn’t pick up on my cue, did you,” Healy replied, not taking his eyes off Turtleneck, “You were just really complaining about your shoe like a jackass, weren’t you.” March didn’t dignify the accusation with a response, but that only confirmed Healy’s suspicions.

“Excuse me for a second.” March left his side, made a wide berth around Turtleneck, and slipped his boot back on, giving two stomps on the floor for good measure. He circled back around to Healy and remembered Holland cowering in the corner. “Hey, see if he has the key to those cuffs on him.”

“You do it. I have the gun on him.”

March sighed and obliged, sinking to Turtleneck’s level and gingerly checking his trouser pockets. He pulled out a small metallic key and put as much space between them as possible. “Got it.” Key in hand, he carefully backtracked toward Holland, keeping Turtleneck in his line of sight.

Once March unlocked her handcuffs, Holland extricated her hands and cradled her head gently onto the table. “I’m so sorry, Mr. March. I didn’t know I was being followed. Honest. And now—and now someone’s dead because of me.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye with a napkin. “The waiter’s dead, and that man nearly killed you and Mr. Hea—Jackson.”

He settled a nervous hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “Don’t worry about it. You saved me and ah, what’s his name, Patrick. You saved me and Patrick from burning to death! Only one guy died today, and we’re not even sure he’s dead, so that’s what matters the most.”

“March!” Healy called from across the room. “What’re we gonna do with this guy?”

“We need to call the police and an ambulance!” Holland suggested.

Turtleneck smiled, and a mixture of saliva and blood rolled down his chin. “If you turn me in, you’ll never find your daughter.”

Frankly, he could take maybe 1 or 2 challenges to the stability of his life in a month. That was normal. But today between the threats to Holly’s life and whatever the fuck was happening to his and Healy’s partnership, he’d been pushed over the edge. “What did you say?”

“I couldn’t have picked her out in a crowd, but I knew right away she was your daughter because she was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong,” his eyes sparkled at March’s discomfort, “Caught her tailing Mrs. Parrish, and we couldn’t have that now, could we?”

His feet carried him forward of their own accord, and Healy held a hand to his chest to stop him from doing anything rash. The heat steadied him, brought him back down to Earth and quelled the buzzing in his ears.

“Where is she?” Healy growled.

“First, you must promise not to call the police. Then maybe I’ll tell you where she is.”

Something about his story didn’t jive with March. He retraced the guy’s steps:  
1) Kidnap Holly. 2) Follow Holland to the diner. 3) Ambush us.

The answer was so obvious.

“She’s in your car.”

A flash of panic fled from Turtleneck’s face, and March knew he’d caught him.

* * *

 

Holly sawed at the tape around her wrists with the dull nail file she’d found shoved in the crack between the back seats. The man she’d been calling ‘Turtleneck’ in her head had left some time ago, and with her less than desirable vantage point in the back of his trunk, there was no telling when he’d be back.

Admittedly, this wasn’t her finest hour. She was really fucking scared, but if only she could get this duct tape cut…

The sharp click of boots on asphalt outside flipped her stomach. She tucked the nail file into her back jean’s pocket and steeled herself for whatever Turtleneck had in store for her. Holding her breath while the trunk creaked open, the adrenaline rush nearly convinced her she could spin around and kick her captor in the stomach and hop away. Luckily, she recognized her dad’s ugly ass suit before she could do him any real damage.

“Holly!” He hugged her awkwardly angled body.

“Mmh hmmm mh!”

“Oh, right.” Her dad peeled the tape back off her mouth slowly, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him it hurt significantly more than if he’d just ripped the tape off in one smooth motion. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m okay.” She could already feel the bruises coming in around her neck, but maybe he wouldn’t notice them just yet.

He propped her up, sitting her on the edge of the trunk while he pulled at the duct tape around her feet. “How did he find you? I thought you were with Janet.”

“Jessica.” No, Janet. “No, sorry, you're right; it was Janet. After you dropped me off, her parents said they were going to the rally, and I didn’t know how to reach you.”

Her dad paused his fruitless attempts at freeing her. “This is all my fault. I should’ve stayed with you.” The guilt in her father’s eyes weakened her resolve to stick with her story, and she decided he deserved the truth.

“No, dad, it’s not your fault. It’s mine.” There wasn’t a way she could break it to him easily. “I lied. I knew Janet was going to the rally and didn’t tell you. I thought I could help with the case, but all I did was get myself caught.”

“Holly, sweetheart,” he leveled with her, “I know you’re smart, and you think you can do what Healy and I do. And on many occasions you’re right. But the only reason I’m not dead is because I have a partner watching my back. If you’re going to follow a lead, I need you to tell me or Healy, okay? Even the best detective needs backup.”

His watery eyes over his crooked mustache usually read as pathetic, but tonight, the sight was unusually endearing.

“I’ll pinky promise on it as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” He nodded, and a mischievous twinkle danced across his eyes. “Watchout!”

She screamed as he hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and both giggled as they headed toward the diner.


	17. Clarifying

Holly March sat beside her in the front passenger seat while Holland drove her dream car back toward the house where she and her husband were staying for the week. Jackson had let her rent the Cadillac as long as they were in Los Angeles, but as soon as they returned to Utah, she’d be back to listening to Patsy Cline in the back of a limo or sitting in her house desperately looking for something to fill the hours.

“I’m sorry our interview got interrupted back there, but could you fill us in on the rest of the details?” Mr. March leaned forward from the back seat, craning his head so that his non-deafened ear could make out her response.

She glanced over to Holly who had clicked a pen and flipped a Bible open on her lap to the blank pages in the back used for notes. Just a few minutes ago, the girl had been restrained in the trunk of a car with duct tape, and she was curious as to why Mr. March wasn’t more concerned for her safety.

“Should we really be talking about this in front of your daughter, Mr. March?”

Holly responded on her father’s behalf, “Dad needs me to take notes for him when Mr. Healy’s not here.”

“Exactly, sweetheart.” A small trail of dried blood trailed from Mr. March’s inner ear, indicating damage to his eardrum. Holland realized there was a chance he hadn’t even heard her question.

She directed her statement to Holly, “I don’t remember where I left off.”

“Uhhh, let’s see, the last thing Mr. Healy wrote was ‘Jordan’s funeral.’”

The memory flooded back to her. White roses. A closed casket. Jordan had shot herself in the temple the news networks had said. “Yes, well, I didn’t stick around for the funeral. The press was flooding the place. Jordan’s sister, Patricia, told me to come to the wake because she wanted to show me something.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. March dozing, head slouched against the pink leather interior. Holly continued to take notes studiously, and Holland wondered off hand if this girl was really the man’s daughter.

“Um, did either my dad or Mr. Healy happen to show you this?” The girl held up a blue card complete with a stained glass mosaic of a stark white cross and a purple shroud.

“No, they didn’t get very far into the interview before they…got distracted.” Mr. March’s face had turned a vicious shade of red, and she could only guess what had gotten him so riled up.

“Sorry, they get distracted sometimes,” Holly chanced a glance at her father, making sure he was sound asleep, “Mr. Healy’s like a—uncle, so you could say things never get boring at our house…or, uh, never mind.”

Where was her mother? Holly acted as if she could take care of herself, but that was all it was: an act. If Holland were to guess, she was barely a teenager, and yes, teenagers needed independence but also the support of a loving mother. “I know this isn’t my place to ask, but would your mother approve of your involvement with your father’s work?”

Holly bristled but immediately folded her guarded emotions back into place, answering with pause, “I don’t know. She’s dead. For almost two years now.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She did. Holly knew she did, too, but she appreciated her attempt at backtracking.

“It’s fine,” she brushed a hair from her face and wiped the corner of her eye in the same motion, “Now, this card. I thought if you could identify the handwriting, we would have a solid tie to our first case.”

“First case? Oh, yes, right, the man in the apartment, Patrick something.”

“Yes, someone close to him died, and we think your husband may have sent him a sympathy card.” She propped open the worn card and lifted the battered paper to Holland’s eyelevel to observe the handwriting:

_John,_

_I’m saddened to hear that you’ve passed. I wish I could’ve known you longer._

_May God smile upon you and grant you access to his eternal Paradise._

_Forgive me._

The writing looked familiar, and the message piqued her attention certainly. “Maybe it’s his. I’d have to peek at his sermon notes to make sure.” The last words struck an ominous chord. _‘Forgive me.’_ If Jackson had truly sent this card, why would he apologize to a dead man?

Sighing at the dead end, Holly tucked the card away back inside the Bible. She flipped back to her notes. “When you got to the house, did Patricia tell you anything?”

“She showed me a birth certificate for someone named Barbara Anderson,” Patricia had locked the door behind them before taking the birth certificate out of a safe stored under her bed, “She told me that was Jordan’s real name, and she changed it a month before she married Jackson.”

“So they didn’t actually match?” Holly looked puzzled. Holland couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know who to believe either until today when that security guard of Jackson’s showed up at the diner. She had her suspicions, but those were only suspicions. Now she had real, tangible proof that her life was in danger.

A gentle snoring emanated from the backseat, and as the car rolled over a pothole, March’s snore rose in volume and dissipated.

“The whole time I was in Nevada, I felt like I was being watched, like Jackson knew I was disobeying. But I had to know what was going on,” she felt her heart rise into her throat as she considered her next thought, “I don’t think Jordan killed herself, Holly. The coroner was from out-of-state, from Utah, and Patricia told me that he didn’t even conduct a full autopsy before ruling her death a suicide.”

“Are you saying Jackson was behind her death?” Holly tread carefully, and Holland appreciated her manners.

Whatever happened to Jordan Anderson wasn’t suicide, Holland knew that now. The only question left to answer was would the same thing happen to her?

* * *

 

“Wake up, Holland.” A voice with a lilting English accent prodded him to stir.

Grumbling through a pain and sleep induced fog, March opened his eyes only to find he was in the wrong car. Gone was the pepto-pink interior, replaced by swaths of rich, white leather. How the driver was navigating the streets was a mystery to him because the windows were entirely frosted, by the cold or by design he had no clue.

Speaking of the driver…

He could only see her salon-curled, chestnut chair and the glint of her eyes in the rearview mirror, but he’d know anywhere that this woman was his—

“Rose.”


	18. Progressing

From her vantage point, March looked like shit and not just because he’d had one hell of a day. He hadn’t shaved properly in what looked like months, and he’d gained at least 15 pounds since her death from the binge drinking.

“Knowing you, you’re freaked the fuck out that your dead wife’s chauffeuring you around Bel-Air, but please, Holland—for my sake—don’t scream.”

“I’m not gonna scream. Why would you think I’d scream? This is a perfectly normal situation,” he’d backed himself as far in the right passenger door as was humanly possible to keep his distance.

Being dead had its perks.  
1) Discovering that, yes, your shitbag husband actually did love you.  
2) Getting a VIP sneak peek into your shitbag husband’s inner monologue to find out that he was more fucked up than you originally thought.  
3) Looking flawless 24/7.

But death wasn’t all mimosas and gossip. No, she’d had to sit on the sidelines, watching as Holland neglected their daughter and kept himself in danger due to a passive desire to die.

“Could you maybe tell me what the Hell’s going on?”

Not so fast. “I don’t want to be cruel, but first I have to say ‘I told you so.’”

“ _’I told you so_?’ Told me what? What the fuck are you talking about? How are you alive?” He sat up a little straighter, furrowing his brows and putting on his little ‘I demand answers’ routine to convey a sense of authority. A sense of dread washed over him, “Holy shit, I’m dead. I died. I’m in Heaven.”

So quick to jump to conclusions. “Easy there, Holland. What makes you think you'd go to Heaven?” she smirked, tucking a curl behind her ear in the process, “You’re not dead, and I’m not alive. As for how I’m here, well, we’re soul mates. Emphasis on the _soul_.”

Holland cleaned out his left ear and leaned forward through the gap in the front seat headrests. “Excuse me, I don’t think I heard you correctly. You’re trying to tell me this isn’t just some alcohol and trauma-induced delusion, and I haven’t actually lost it? Tough sell.” He searched for his cigarettes inside his ugly brown suit but came up empty-handed, “Shittiest fucking dream I’ve ever had. I can’t even smoke.”

“You’re not dreaming,” Rose sighed, “Because we’re matched, our souls can communicate. I’ve wanted to contact you for so long, but if you knew—about this, I mean, then you’d never let me go.”

From the rearview mirror, she watched his eyes dull and heard his breath slow as if his lungs were struggling under the weight of this revelation. “Why now?”

“Holland…”

Fire grew in his eyes as something clicked into place. “No, why did you decide now, of all possible times, to contact me. If this is even fucking real.” He snorted.

A cautious voice told her that she shouldn’t reveal everything, but since when had she ever been cautious?

“I’ve watched you. You’re killing yourself, Holl. I thought I could talk some bloody sense into your thick skull.”

“Oh, thanks for the newsflash. Soul mates are real, and I’m the absolute fucking worst. Got it. Are you gonna rag on me some more, or can I wake up now?”

“But they _are_ real,” she asserted desperately.

“You never said anything—“

“Why do you think that is, huh?” She thanked her stars that for Holland’s sake she had the steering wheel to wring and throttle, “It would’ve been like telling you I believe in ghosts!”

“Please tell me you don’t believe in ghosts,” March groaned.

“See! You’re talking face to face with a ghost right now, and you still won’t change your fucking mind,” she gave her horn a couple angry honks before taking two slow, deep breaths, “I’m not here to convince you of soul mates or ghosts.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he rubbed the window with his tie in a fruitless attempt at clearing the fog away, giving up and throwing himself horizontally across the backseat.

It’d been almost 2 years since she’d had to navigate his mercurial moods, so she was woefully out of practice. She hesitated and took stock of her current situation because what she was about to say would get one of two possible reactions: intense, fiery defense or shocked, quiet astonishment.

“I want to talk about Jackson Healy.”

She couldn’t see him, but from the electricity in the air, she knew he’d frozen.

“What about him?” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and repeated the question. “What about him?”

“I’m not here to…force anything,” especially with Holland 95% against the idea of soul mates and 5% secretly holding out hope that someone could actually love him, “But the way things are going between you two is regrettable.”

“That’s his fault, not mine,” he glared at the domed interior of the car, “Tell me, do you think I could really be partners with someone who hates who I am at a fundamental level?”

Rose watched ambient light dance across the frosted windshield in front of her, considering how to proceed. It wasn’t her secret to reveal. She was merely a facilitator. But what good would it do for her to play it safe and leave Holland to push away one of the few people who genuinely loved him?

“I know you’re very clever and think you know everything, which is more often than I give you credit for. But there are more than enough times when you _don’t_ know everything, and I think you should take that into consideration before jumping to conclusions.” She’d had a while to think over what she’d say to Holland the next time she saw him, and the words she’d rehearsed in her down time came back to her after the initial disorientation of conversing with her husband from beyond the grave.

The rustle of nylon over leather alerted her that Holland shifted himself upright. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head like a child staring at his Christmas presents on December 24th. A funny déjà vu struck her, and she was back in 8th grade English, reading about Greek mythology. Orpheus and Eurydice. The lovers separated by caprice. Except she was the one walking in front towards the light, not allowed to turn her back lest she lose her husband yet again. It dawned on her she hadn’t looked straight at Holland for the entire ride, afraid that one glance would send him back to the land of the living, leaving her lonely until he found himself on the wrong end of a pistol.

“In the fire, all the pictures burned up. Could I—“ he stammered, embarrassed, “I’ve forgotten what you look like, Rose.”

Slowly swiveling her neck toward her husband, she felt his breath ghost over her lips. Traveling up from his scraggly facial hair, she reached his eyes, and in them she saw his entire world.

* * *

 

Mrs. Parrish pulled up to the security kiosk amidst a sea of protestors surrounding the gated-off mansion.

“Hello, Mr. Hooks, I’m back for the main affair!” She cheerfully greeted the security guard who returned her warm smile.

“I was expecting you with Mr. Parrish. How come you’re here so early? And why you not driving with your husband? And who’re your friends?”

 _‘Questions, questions, questions_ ,’ Holly thought.

None of the questions seemed to faze Mrs. Parrish however. “Oh, just some guests I thought would look good for a photo op.” She winked, and Mr. Hooks nodded with understanding. He pressed the button, which opened the 12ft tall, cast iron gate.

“You’re such a peach, Mr. Hooks. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You only met me this week, m’am, but I feel I’ve seen you the past 20 years with how kind you are to me.”

“Say, I have another guest,” she eyed the protesters behind her, “Could I add his name to the list. He’ll be coming in behind me. Don’t worry. He’s a good man like yourself.”

“Don’t go judging me before God and all his angels just yet, Mrs. Parrish,” Mr. Hooks chuckled at her pleasantries, “But yes, just tell me his name. It shouldn’t be too much trouble to squeeze one more name onto this list.”

“His name’s Healy. Jackson Healy.”

“Jackson Healy. Alright, m’am, you’re good to go and enjoy your Fourth of July. Or enjoy it as much as you can rubbing elbows with this crowd.”

Holly hadn’t seen such good smooth-talking in her life and made note to ask Mrs. Parrish where she’d learned the art. Something told her it had to do with the two adults’ shared Southern accents.

“Where are you from, Mrs. Parrish?” Holly dared to ask now that their formal interview was over (with her dad still passed out in the backseat).

“Texas, my dear. Sweet ol’ Texas.”


	19. Converging

Jack cruised down the highway alone with his arm hanging out the broken driver’s side window. He’d suggested March and Holly hitch a ride with Holland to salvage the interview, while Jack stayed behind to call the police and handcuff the man in the turtleneck to the cigarette dispenser. A quick inspection of the man’s glove box revealed a driver’s license for a Jordan Ashbrook.

One mystery solved. At least he wouldn’t have to call Jordan by some stupid nickname like “Bald Clark Gable” or “Turtleneck.”

The night air cleared his smoke-damaged lungs but failed to refresh his fatigue-addled mind. The case didn’t add up. March didn’t add up. The only part of his life that added up was that the empty LA highways afforded him the welcome freedom to reflect on how glad he was to be alive. The multiple times his life had been at risk throughout the 24 hours of this Fourth of July highlighted the reasons he simply didn't give up and veer off the overpass right then and there. Holland Parrish needed him to solve her case and protect her life. Holly needed him to give her reassurance during this time of instability. March…well, March just straight up needed him.

Coasting into Bel Air, he followed the directions Holland had given him, looping this way and that until his Oldsmobile encountered a sea of protesters in front of a gated mansion.

“Fucking kids,” he muttered, wondering how he’d get into the party with the security that came with this many loose cannons. He inched through the crowd, woefully unable to roll up his window to avoid the abuse hurled at him and at all the vehicles making their way to the Parrish affair.

A familiar face approached his car, hand grabbing the door’s metal frame urging him to stop.

“Mr. Healy!” Patrick yelped triumphantly. He hoisted up a sign with the words “Parrish Will Perish!” in large, black letters, “Clever, huh?”

“What are you doing here, Patrick?” And didn’t he tell the kid to call him Jackson? "Do yourself a favor, and go home."

“I don’t have a home!” For a man with nothing left in his life save a picket sign, he seemed quite at ease, “I’m staying with some friends, and _they_ had plans to protest outside Parrish’s Anti-Youth party. I have a right to be here!” Patrick let out a reverent, “WOO-HOO!” before disappearing back into the crowd.

Jack couldn’t be sure, but there was definitely a fog of marijuana haze lingering above the crowd.

When he finally reached the security kiosk, he realized he lacked any sort of official invitation and that the security guard would surely bar his entrance.

“Um, I know how this sounds,” Jack began, “But Mrs. Parrish invited me to this party, and if you could just get her, I’m sure she’ll back me up.”

“Name?” The guard chewed his lip as if he’d heard all the excuses in the book that press tried to feed him.

“Jack Healy.”

As soon as he offered his name, the guard’s face slipped into an easy grin, “Well, why didn’t you just say so? The missus made sure to mention you’d be coming. Just pull up, hand your key to the valet, and you’ll be fixed up good.”

The gates opened to rows of sparkling limousines, glamorous parked cars, and shimmering evening gowns. By his nature, he dressed simply, but for the first time in a long time, Jack thought maybe he’d arrived more than a bit underdressed for the occasion.

* * *

 

Partygoers glared at her as she tailed behind Mrs. Parrish. Holly clutched the hotel Bible to her chest. What would her mom do?

‘ _Tell those uppity cunts to go fuck themselves.’_

She cringed. Could this conservative crowd read her mind? The hordes of old, white men with business mustaches muttered about her to their hot, bejeweled trophy wives.

Lost in her thoughts, she nearly ran into her guide as someone called to her, flowing blue fabric twisting about her waist like Cinderella.

“Holland, we’ve been looking everywhere for you,” a smarmy man with wire-rimmed glasses stopped Mrs. Parrish, “Who is this young one?” The man shot her a cold smile.

“Oh, Jackson, I’m so terribly sorry. I thought I told security what I was doing. I needed to run some errands before the party,” she nearly wilted underneath his knowing stare.

So this dolt was Jackson Parrish.

“Sorry, sir. It was my fault,” Holly piped up, aware that her original intent involved using Mrs. Parrish for backup, but the tables had turned, “I begged her to let me come to this party to meet you. She had to find my parents because I’d snuck away from them at the lecture. I agree with everything you said about the youth of today. We really will bring about the end of the world with the way that we’re acting, me included. I beg your pardon. I’m your biggest fan.” The hokey Southern accent that colored her words surprised even her.

Mrs. Parrish squeezed her shoulder, leaning in close for only Jackson to hear, “I thought she’d look great as a photo op.”

He nodded in unsavory understanding, turning to Holly with a plastered-on grin, “So, how is my biggest fan tonight?”

The idea struck her with such force that she caught herself from shouting, “Wonderful. I’d be even better if you could sign my Bible.” She turned to the front cover, gesturing hopefully with her pen. If she could just get a handwriting sample…

“Now, I would be honored, sweetheart,” he took the pen and Bible out of her hands, “Who do I make this out to?”

“Holly. Holly Clarke,” she used her mother’s maiden name.

“Dear Holly,” he began, scrawling away like he was Jesus himself.

The floor dropped out from under her as she spotted the sympathy card still wedged between the Bible’s pages.

With a final flourish, Jackson Parrish snapped the book shut and handed the tome back to Holly. “I hope all is to your satisfaction, Holly.”

Before she could securely wrap her arms around the evidence once more, the card came fluttering out of the bottom, landing softly face-up on the floor. Mr. Parrish bent over to retrieve the innocent-looking piece of Hallmark paraphernalia, and Holly did her best to salvage the situation.

“Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’ll get that,” both parties rose with one hand firmly grasping a side of the card.

A simple flip of his thumb and Mr. Parrish opened the card, brows narrowing menacingly as he recognized his own handwriting.

Holly swallowed hard. She had a feeling not even her backup could help her now.

* * *

 

He awoke to his cheek affixed to pink leather, peeling his face slowly off the backseat of Holland Parrish's Cadillac. As he regained his senses, his conversation with Rose flooded back to him, her final glance burned onto the insides of his eyelids. He pressed his fingertips deep into his eye sockets until he saw stars, but the image still remained. Consciousness descended upon him, and he realized a folded note rested atop his chest, held down underneath one of his lapels. He took the white paper and squinted at it fiercely to force the words to stay in one place.

_Dad,_

_I didn’t want to wake you up because you need your sleep, and I know you’ll wake up eventually. Don’t worry. I remembered what you said about backup. I’ll see you inside._

_Love you._

_Holly_


	20. Falling

The various liquor bottles glittered back at her temptingly while she drained her flute of champagne. Celebratory bubbles bit the insides of her cheeks. Holly had disappeared somewhere flanked by security, and all Jackson had to threaten Holland with was a pointed look. What would she say to Mr. March? Holly trusted her to watch her back, and when the moment of truth arrived, she’d failed.

“How’s the lady of the hour?” A woman in a dark evening gown sidled up to her at the bar. Her sharp features combined with her shaved head and shimmering sapphire earrings gave Holland the impression she was in the presence of someone incredibly important.

“May I tell you the truth?”

“Shoot.”

Holland adjusted herself accordingly. “I am having what a substantially less polite person would describe as one of the ‘shittiest nights of my life.’”

The mystery woman grinned dazzlingly, dimples making themselves known. “If you tell me what’s the matter, maybe I could be of some assistance.”

“I’m sorry, m’am,” Holland managed against the woman’s charm, “I don’t usually broadcast my problems to strangers although that does seem to be the pattern as of late.”

“The name’s Josie. Josephine Gallager if you’re keen on looking me up in the phone book,” Josie extended her hand invitingly, taking Holland’s hand and giving a pleasant shake, “And you’re Holland Parrish. Now we’re not strangers. Again, I’ll ask: Could I be of some assistance?”

Grabbing another champagne flute, Holland recapitulated the situation in her head to see what points she could safely reveal to her new “friend.”

“I’m stuck between choosing the smart decision and the right decision,” she clicked her nails, in desperate need for a cigarette break.

“What’s the difference between the two?”

“Oh, the difference,” Holland smoothed her eyebrows down compulsively, “The difference is I do nothing and can’t live with myself. _Or_ I do something and sign my death warrant.”

Josie’s eyes shone brighter than her gown and earrings combined, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to sign _my_ death warrant tonight.”

“Why the Hell not,” she laughed nervously in view of the danger ahead, tipping back her champagne before embarking on a surely doomed rescue mission.

* * *

 

Warm wind flitted across the mansion’s 3rd floor balcony. Most of the partygoers hadn’t ventured up this far; the majority cozied up to each other on the ground floor. March braced himself against the balcony’s rails after a sweep of the party. No Holly. No Holland. No Healy. No alcohol. The bar only offered a maximum of two drinks per guest. He’d tossed back both his options almost immediately.

His gut told him to stay downstairs, scope out the area, but too many fancily clad asshats kept staring at him. Okay, _just because_ his suit was shit-brown, and he smelled like a burnt house and probably held political opinions 100% counter to anyone else here, that didn’t mean they had to stare at him! Who was he kidding? They could see “QUEER, DRUNK, ANTI-REAGAN, ANTI-VIETNAM FAILURE OF AN AMERICAN CITIZEN AND FATHER” written all over him. Hadn’t there been a Reagan look-alike at the hors d’oeuvres table?

Shit, maybe it _was_ Reagan.

Trees swayed beneath him in the valley below the mansion, as if they were asking him to join them. Someone’s stray wineglass balanced precariously on the metal railing. March reached out to drain the rest of the wine, and when he’d gulped down someone else’s dregs, he let the glass plummet 60 ft into the waiting pine trees.

A stray thought observed that a person falling from this height would most likely break their neck.

‘ _With my luck, I’d probably survive_ ,’ March countered half-heartedly, not completely ruling out that possible ending to the night. He closed his eyes, leaning against the cast iron railing, picturing his boots twisting over his head magnificently until he landed— _thud—_ on the valley floor.

“Not thinking about jumping I hope.”

Healy’s gravely voice snapped him out of his fantasy.

“Actually…”

“That was a joke,” Healy approached the balcony with worried eyes, “What’s wrong, March?”

“Besides the obvious?” he snickered bitterly, directing his comment to the LA city lights sprawled out in front of him, reluctant to face Healy after their confrontation at the Last Stop Diner.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, grasping him as if the wind might blow him off the balcony any second. “I don’t know where I should start with any of this, but people are counting on you to solve this case, March.”

“How did you find me? I should’ve picked a better hiding spot.”

“Do you want the real answer?” he inclined his head with a hint of a smile, intent on catching March’s gaze, “First thing’s first, I checked the bar. Seeing you weren’t there, I searched the places you’d most likely manage to fall from, which meant going from balcony to balcony ‘til I found you.”

The small crinkles in the corner of his eye indicated March’s quiet amusement.

Healy continued, “Listen, March, Holly and I need you. Holly loves you, and for Christ’s sake, she can’t lose another parent right now. And I, well, you probably don’t care much about what I think, but I…wouldn’t know what to do without you. Let’s leave it at that.”

At the mention of losing another parent, March’s mind shot straight to Rose, and why the fuck shouldn’t he tell him. Healy already thought he was crazy, so what else did he have to lose? “I saw Rose. In a dream. If there’s a chance I can be with her again, Healy…” He hadn’t realized that’s what all this suicide shit amounted to, but he should’ve figured. Drill to his core, and March’s hopes and delusions revolved around himself in spite of his attempts at being a decent father and half-functioning human being.

“March…”

“I’m not meant to be here. You should’ve let me burn up,” March broke Healy’s physical connection and turned toward the door, ready as he ever would be to change the fucking topic. A hand enveloped his, and before he could react, Healy traced his other hand along March’s jaw line. Unbearable tears welled up in Healy’s eyes. Every interaction with him over the past 48 hours clicked into place, and March cursed himself for causing Healy so much pain.

“If you ever say that again, I swear to God, I’ll punch you square in the face.”

Before March could fire back a quick quip, Healy had drawn him in close, pressing their mouths together.

Radio static alerted the pair to an unexpected third party.

“Yep, I think I found some protestors up here, too. I might need backup,” the security guard pulled away from his walkie to address March and Healy directly, “I’m gonna need you two to come with me.”

“And what if we don’t?” Healy arched his eyebrows, keeping March’s hand in his.

The menacing blue crackle of the guard’s taser wholeheartedly convinced March to cooperate.


	21. Landing

The study held shelves upon shelves of books, prestigious knick-knacks, and framed pictures containing men in suits exchanging handshakes. The study _also_ held Mr. March, Holly March, Jackson, a strange woman named Josie, and 3 guards. After a short snoop around the mansion, security had apprehended them despite Holland’s protests that she was wife to the Reverend Parrish. Josie comforted her on the study’s couch, holding her hand and providing empty phrases to make her feel safe. Her entire focus centered on her new friend’s soft palms on her twitchy fingers.

Holly March spun herself around in the chair behind the ornate desk, eyeing her Bible one of the guards stored next to him on the bookshelf. When Mr. March and Jackson had stumbled in followed by two more guards, Holly perked up, leaning across the desk for a reunion hug once her father finally realized his prison was the one that also stored his daughter.

For now and the last 10 minutes, Mr. March sat closest to the desk in one of the two armchairs flanking a tasteful side table. Jackson wrung his hands pensively, eventually looking toward Mr. March for some sort of…acceptance?

“Who _are_ you exactly?” Mr. March spoke up. He’d been too distracted by his daughter and small attempts at conversation with Jackson to really notice Josie’s existence, but when he did, he let her know it.

Josie’s eyebrows shot up her forehead, “And who are _you_ exactly?”

“Sorry, m’am,” Jackson compensated for Mr. March’s lack of manners, “What he’s trying to say is we’ve had a long day, and when we meet someone new, the record shows it usually doesn’t end very well for us.”

She threaded her arm from around Holland’s shoulders to consider Jackson, “I’m someone who knows enough about this woman’s situation that I am compelled to help her survive it.”

“What do you know about the case?” Holly piped up.

With a cautious glance at the security guards, Josie expounded on her presence, “I found Holland here at the bar in need of help, so there remains the question, who are you three?”

“The Nice Guys Detective Agency,” Mr. March grinned, extending his hand politely and jolting backwards when the doors to the study swung open to reveal her husband and that awful Turtleneck man, who closed the doors without a word. Looking into her husband’s wrathful eyes, Holland fell deeper into despair.

* * *

 

“So this is the family of cockroaches who refuses to die,” Parrish regarded March, Holly, and Jack with utmost irritation. He snapped to the nearest guard, who handed him their case notes and evidence.

“Hey,” Jack watched Jordan Ashbrook whisper something despicable in Parrish’s ear, “I thought I left you handcuffed back there to the cigarette dispenser.”

All Ashbrook had to say involved shoving up his sleeves ever so slightly to reveal raw marks around his wrists from where he must’ve hoisted the flimsy dispenser off its foundation to freedom.

Parrish slipped the sympathy card from its hiding spot within the Bible’s pages, crossing the study to the fireplace and tossing the card in the middle of dry logs as kindling. “You know what to do,” he instructed Ashbrook, who opened the flue, struck a match, and destroyed the one piece of physical evidence they’d managed to accumulate.

“No matter what you do,” March interjected with his extremely limited knowledge of the case, “we know what you did to John.”

“What did I do to John?” Parrish’s hate disappeared in confusion. He looked to a shrugging Ashbrook and back to March.

Firing on all cylinders, March sprung from his chair, “You killed him is what you did! You were having an affair with him, and he blackmailed you to inform your sick followers about what a hypocrite you are. So you made sure he kept quiet—permanently!” Parrish’s hired guns reached for their weapons, but he waved them off.

“Jesus, I’m surprised you’ve lived this long, but I guess that’s why they call it ‘dumb luck,’” he flipped through the Bible, tore out the notes section, and added the paper to the small blaze, “John was my son from a rather unfortunate teenage relationship. I am many things but not so much of a monster as to kill my own son.”

“But you’d kill your own wife?” Holly shouted from the back of the study, wrenching something from the back of her pants and pointing it at her captors, “Freeze!” Her pseudo-cop stance brought a smile to Josie’s face, but March certainly didn’t find amusement in Holly’s actions.

“Is that my gun?” he shrieked, searching his pockets frantically only to come to the conclusion that Holly had lifted his gun while he'd slept in the back of Holland’s Cadillac.

This line of inquiry caught Parrish’s attention, and despite the immense pressure on Holly, she continued, “She was going to tell everyone she’d changed her name, that you _made her_ change her name. But your ministry couldn’t handle the scandal, so you staged her suicide.”

“Holly,” March urged in a shrill whisper, “Put down the gun. Remember what I said about backup.”

“Smart girl. You really are the brains of the operation aren’t you,” he chided, signaling his guards to disarm her, “And I suppose that’s why you snuck away, to rat me out to these Stooges.” Parrish rounded on Holland, reaching to strike her.

Jack felt helpless without a weapon and thought about taking a second bullet to the bicep before he heard the sound of a 5th as of yet unidentified gun at the ready.

“FBI. Lower your weapons,” Josie declared, exposing her badge for a second before both hands fitted to the gun she’d drawn from her sequined purse, pressing the muzzle to Parrish’s temple. One glance at the FBI badge and the 3 guards split, deserting the room in hopes that on the off chance they’d escape identification.

“Watch out!” Holland directed March’s attention to Ashbrook reaching for his own weapon, and March spilled over the side of his chair to grab Ashbrook’s legs, tripping him. A bullet from his barely-drawn gun took out a finely crafted lamp on the side table next to Jack. March crawled up the man’s body without a real plan besides restraining him. Luckily, Jack rose and knocked Ashbrook out with a clean punch to the jaw.

“Gimme the gun, Holly,” Jack breathed, and Holly gave up the gun, leaning into his open arms for a much needed hug.


	22. Ending

Police officers escorted partygoers off the scene. Protestors cheered in the distance, and March wondered offhandedly how the night ended with such a low body count. A couple cops had just finished taking their statements on what had happened that night. March wasn’t even sure what all had happened that night despite operating on this side of intoxicated for the first time in recent memory. The trio wandered across the busy parking lot, gravitating toward Holland out of familiarity. Holland sat on the edge of an ambulance wrapped in a shock blanket and taking slow drags on a fresh cigarette; March greedily breathed in the wisps of cigarette smoke curling around him. He felt like they should say something, but he just couldn’t decide on what.

Upon approaching her, both March and Healy floundered, but Holly stepped forward. “How are you feeling?”

Holland smiled sadly and took Holly’s hand, “Thankful that I was in such capable hands.” She directed this compliment firmly at Holly, and March figured it was just as well. He didn’t really do anything, did he?

“Ah,” he ruined the tender moment, “If I may interrupt, there’s still the matter of our payment, and I wouldn’t be hassling you if we were not currently homeless.” Platitudes. He’d hassle anyone for money at any conceivable time. But he did admittedly feel guilty as Holly shot him a death-glare.

“Homeless?” Sheer horror struck Holland’s Southern heart.

Healy paused her before she could reach for her checkbook, “Please, don’t worry about it right now. What my partner means to say is that both our houses have burnt down recently because of this case, and…that doesn’t sound any better at all does it.”

In a flash of flowing synthetic fabric, Josie appeared at Holland’s side. “Don’t you dare worry this woman any more than she has to be right now.”

“No, it's fine, Josie. I don’t know where I’d be without these three,” Holland searched in vain for her clutch, “Gosh darnit! It must still be inside.”

March jumped to the ready, “We can search for it, no problem. It's the least we could do.”

Healy pitched in, “How about we catch up with you some other time? You know, some time other than in the middle of an FBI investigation…”

“Sure!” Holland started but ran into a slight problem, “Except I don’t really have a permanent address currently, and I don’t know where the FBI is going to take me, and—“

“That’s fine,” Healy tried to soothe her worried tone with his sturdy baritone, “You can just call us. We have an add in the Yellow Pages.”

“It won’t work, genius. Both lines are gone, so no one’s gonna pick up,” March added impatiently.

“Oh, I’m the genius, smart ass? I wasn’t the one to accuse Parrish of sleeping with his own son!” Healy cracked, and March poised to strike back until Josie broke in.

“For the love of God, I will give you both my number to get in touch with Mrs. Parrish when she agrees she can spare a goddamn minute,” Josie took a piece of scratch paper from her clutch, scrawled her number on it twice, tore it in two, and gave one scrap to Healy and the other to March. March gave his to Holly, who accepted the paper almost expectantly.

“What were you investigating Parrish for?” Holly chipped in, curious as to the outcome of their mangled case.

Josie considered Holly for a moment, then March, possibly trying to connect what sort of relation they shared. After some sort of consensus, Josie shook her head slightly, “I can’t share all the details, but we’ve been tracking this guy for a while. The Jordan Anderson murder was just what compelled us to act.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “ _I_ pushed for action because I was afraid for Parrish’s followers as well as for the unaware members of his inner circle.” She caught Holland’s eye and connected with her for a second before raising her walls once more in front of her audience.

“Looks like you haven’t found your Jackson after all,” Healy made polite fun, calling back to their earlier conversation in the diner, which had caused so much drama between him and March.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were propositioning me,” Holland laughed a true, bright laugh in the face of so much pain, putting on a face of mock scandal.

“Actually,” Healy caught March’s unamused pout, “I’m a matched man.”

This stopped Holland in her tracks, “Really…and when did this manage to happen? Or were you just lying to me about your skepticism to get my goat? I don’t know which I believe less.”

Something dawned on Holly, and her face lit up. March watched her latch onto Healy’s arm and poke him in the side excitedly. What did Holly know? _How_ could Holly know?

“I can’t believe it. I kiss you _,_ now all of Los Angeles knows.”

“Uh, I kissed _you_ if we’re being technical here,” Healy muttered out of the side of his mouth for discretion’s sake.

“So you two…” Holland paused in actual scandal, putting everything together, “Is that why…at the diner….”

March squirmed under her and Josie’s scrutiny. People had to be so goddamn nosy sometimes.

“Ah, yes,” Healy breathed a nervous laugh, “We’ve worked it out since then. Sort of. I guess we should really apologize for being so unprofessional, ha ha. The only thing I’m honestly still confused about is how many matches out there are named Holland and Jackson?”

“At least two,” Holland smiled, taking the news pretty well for a soon-to-be ex-wife of a homophobic cult leader.

A lightning-struck Josie decided to shut down the conversation, “I’m sorry, but the lady really needs to rest.” March recoiled from the force of her statement, while Healy nodded his head in a warm goodbye. Holly snuck in a quick hug before the trio moved away from the ambulance and stopped just as quickly, realizing there was no where left for them to go.

Snippets of Holland and Josie’s conversation drifted over the gentle summer breeze.

“Not to be forward or anything, but my match also happens to be named Holland.”

“Oh, there’s nothing forward about it unless your name’s Jackson!”

Josie broke up Holland’s giggling, “Actually if you can keep a secret…”

“March,” Healy snapped him back to the moment, “Let’s go to the car, find a hotel. We can deal with all the other shit tomorrow.”

“Preferably some place with a mini-bar.”

Holly’s face darkened, and Healy clammed up. “Yeah, about that…I think you might need to go to the doctor after we get all sorted.”

“I’m not the one with 12 stitches in his back,” March countered, rubbing the trail of burns around his neck that were just beginning to itch.

“Yeah, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then I don’t know what you mean.”

“About the drinking, March.”

The meaning hit him full force in the stomach, “A shrink! You mean a shrink!”

“Yes, and no,” Healy tread carefully, gathering his thoughts, “I have this buddy, see. His wife had a spending problem, and one day he came home from a business trip to find she’d spent 10 grand redecorating the house. She got the help she needed and takes some sort of medicine now. Lithium, maybe.”

With a deep breath (and an even deeper cough from his smoke-stained lungs), March reflected on Healy’s words and read the truth on Holly’s face. He’d never considered himself normal, but he never thought he’d needed help either. Other people needed help. He lived with his problems just fine. But he _didn’t_. The past two years, the past two days were proof of that.

“I’ll think about it.”

Healy released a tremendous sigh of relief, untangling his keys from the valet stand, “Thanks, March. I mean it.”

The three found Healys's Oldsmobile nestled between glamorous limousines and took their seats, unsure of where they were going but sure of who would be by their side along the way.


End file.
